


Sincerely and Other Adverbium

by Laurasauras



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (in only the strictest sense as Harry and Draco are not enemies at the beginning of this), Depression, Discussions of Death Eaters, Draco Malfoy's Dramatic Phrasing, Draco Malfoy's Trial, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Letters, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, background Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley - Freeform, but in a coping kind of way, moving forward and healing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 80,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26223754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: Harry and Draco start writing letters to each other after the war. Something about the distance makes it easier to talk.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, minor Draco Malfoy/Original Female Character
Comments: 175
Kudos: 166





	1. 1998 - May - Dec

**Author's Note:**

> Though this covers a lot of ground and while I truly do believe Harry was ready to put all their past behind them after the war, I'm pretty aware that I'm making them like each other and develop honesty at a probably unrealistic speed. In my defence, it's a Drarry fic. I've also made Lucius and Narcissa good parents who want to put the war behind them, if that's a nope this is not the fic for you. Tags may develop and I'll chuck something in the notes when they do.

20th June, 1998

Malfoy,

I meant to return this after the battle, but I couldn’t find you. Thanks for the wand. I know you didn’t exactly hand it over, but it seems like the thing to say. Not only did it take down Voldemort, it also helped me break into and out of Gringotts and commemorate a lost friend. It’s a nice wand. 

I guess you’re back home, though you could be anywhere. I don’t know if I’d want to go back to your place after everything, especially since I haven’t been able to face mine yet. It was a bit of a shitheap already if I’m being honest, but I can’t imagine letting Death Eaters into it made things any better. 

If you could thank your mum for me for what she did at the battle, I’d appreciate it. I should probably send her a separate letter, but honestly apart from that one sentence I don’t know what I’d say. 

I feel like a bit of a tosser for writing this, but it felt weirder to just send it without anything. Which is saying something, because this feels really weird. I never thought I’d write to you, but I think we’ve moved past who we were at school. I have, anyway. I don’t really want us to be your dad and Mr Weasley getting into a punch on in 20 years.

Gratefully,

Harry

  
_ 2nd July, 1998 _

_Potter,_

_ Thank you for returning my wand. It  _ _ is _ _ a nice wand and I rather like being able to cast my own Warming Charms. We are home, which is just as freezing as ever, with the added bonus of being utterly desecrated. We’ve been sleeping in a tent on the lawn, that should give you a laugh. Perhaps it will be inhabitable sometime in the next decade. _

_ Did you really ride a dragon out of Gringotts? I don’t know why I’m still getting The Prophet, lord knows it has the credibility of a garden gnome, but it seems like a good idea to remind myself that there is a world out there. One that’s healing, even. I don’t know if you get it, but there’s a regular column updating the public on the repairs to Hogwarts. Last Thursday they repaired the gates, which is of course very good for the wards, but all I can think about is how very big they looked when I was eleven and I can’t imagine Hogwarts without them, so that made me something very much approximating happy.  _

_ My mother tells me that you’re not to thank her as she was entirely selfishly motivated and she’s rather grateful for the fact that you killed You-Know-Who, so it feels ridiculous to accept your gratitude. My father said that she could be a bit more gracious and she decided that actually she was okay with you thanking her. And I decided that I would dedicate the entire event to paper because my parents are insane and there’s no one around to appreciate this fact but you. To clarify, I quite like them, and I will be put out if you agree with me about their insanity, but as I assume you’re not reading the doubtlessly innumerate amount of fanmail directed your way, I’m probably safe from your responding.  _

_ Not that I would hate it if you did reply. It’s another way of reminding me that there are other people in this world. This house was so full, not in a particularly good way, but it’s like a tomb now. It was beautiful once. So much for appreciating pure-blood history and values.  _

_ And no, let’s not fight. Apart from anything else, I think after the whole business with You-Know-Who that I would have to be extraordinarily arrogant to think I could beat you in Muggle wrestling.  _

_ Please be impressed that I have not attempted to antagonise you once in this letter. I shall now brag excessively over my civility to my parents until I am forcibly evicted from this horrendous planet and have to take up residence with my namesake. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Draco _

_ P.S. Your sign off was ridiculous. _

_ P.P.S. I like your owl.  _

28th July, 1998

Malfoy,

I have to admit I didn’t think you’d reply. I can’t believe I spent six years in school with you and  saw how much of a dramatic you are and your writing still took me by surprise. In a good way, I think.

I’m not laughing at you in a tent, I spent most of last year in one. Wizarding tents are pretty spectacular, but they’re not exactly home. Did you want help with your house? I think I’d be useless, the only good spells I know are Reparo and Scourgify. Muggles have classes that teach them household skills, wizards learn to make teacups tap dance. Mrs Weasley’s teaching us a few things. I take off half the potato with the peel, but I’ll get better. Do your parents know how to do that kind of thing? I can’t imagine either of them peeling a potato.

We did ride a dragon out of Gringotts. I think I would have wanted to free it even if things hadn’t entirely gone to shit, poor bugger didn’t belong in that place. I much prefer a broom, though. It was terrifying. I like the idea of dragons, but if I went the rest of my life without seeing another I’d be okay with it.

I haven’t been getting the paper, but I asked Hermione about the column you talked about and she’s cutting it out for me. I think I understand what you said about the rest of the world existing, but I don’t really want to see it. I remember the gates, too. And, stupid as a priority as it is, I don’t think I could go back to Hogwarts until the Quidditch pitch is back.  Maybe I’ll never go back.

I have no idea what to say about your parents. I’m glad you like them and I’m glad your mum (can I assume you and your  dad too?) wanted Voldemort gone. I’m curious about your relationship with them, but you obviously don’t have to tell me about it. You and your dad always gave off a cold impression, so different to the Weasleys, but it’s not like they act exactly the same in public as they do at home either.

Voldemort didn’t value pure-blood culture. He wanted to rule over wizards just as much as Muggles. He felt excluded from the magical world and was obsessed with having power over it. I’m not surprised he didn’t respect your house, or that he destroyed Hogwarts even though he loved it. Did you really think he would have treated your lot well if he’d won?

This isn’t my owl, he belonged to Remus Lupin. His name is Tyton.

Ridiculously,

Harry

  
_ 12th August, 1998 _

_Potter,_

_ You aren’t honestly offering me help with my house when you can’t step foot in yours, are you? In the interest of remaining on the good side of the saviour of our world, I won’t say what I think of your offer apart from the fact that it’s quite unnecessary. How  _ _ did _ _ I end up on your good side? Why did you write back? _

_ My parents are remarkably good at household magic for people who have always had elves to do it for them. I am also learning, and given that Charms was always my best subject it is unsurprising how well I’m picking them up, undoubtedly much faster than you. Try not to demand the potato peel itself, Potter, charms require more lightness and subtlety than that. _

_ I like dragons too, though they’ve never stepped out of theory for me. Not quite, I won’t count seeing them at the Triwizard Tournament, considering who I’m sending this to. Though that  _ _ was _ _ thrilling and those dragons were gorgeous. My great, great (great?) granduncle was a dragon slayer. Thankfully his sword is in our family vault and therefore hasn’t been stolen along with half our possessions from the Manor. I know it’s illegal to hunt them now and to be quite honest I agree, but the Ballad of Arcturus the Fierce was one of my favourite stories growing up. _

_ Yes, my father and I are glad he’s gone too. He told me that You-Know-Who was different last time. He was cruel to his enemies and expected total obedience, a servitude that was more loyal than love, but he was also attentive, persuasive. My father believed him when he said that his followers would become royalty. When he came back he was unhinged, but my father refused to show even a hint of doubt, even around the family. Especially around the family. What if I had picked up on it and given it away? That’s not to excuse his actions. He knew he may have been able to get protection from your side. He didn’t think you would win. _

_ Now, here’s the thing about writing letters. One responds to the previous letter and then one tells their own story so that their correspondent has something to reply to as well, else we’ll be stuck discussing the same thing over and over. And this has the added benefit of being a story about my father and I, so you can deduce what you like about our relationship, as requested. Perhaps you’ll reciprocate and allow me insight into your life. _

_ Today my father took me hunting. We have a lot of land, much of which I’ve barely touched. It’s all very well to go exploring, but when there’s a hundred acres of woodland where men sometimes hunt deer, pheasant and bicorn, one tends to only dip one’s toes in.  _

_ Anyway, my father and I are walking out into this acreage at five o’clock in the fucking morning, me trying to keep my Lumos steady while also wanting desperately to be back in bed, and he’s telling me all about hunting spells and traditions and I must have heard it all before but it  _ _ has _ _ been a while since there was a hunting party and it felt new. And as much as I was reluctant to be awake, I equally knew I should be listening as he told me what to do. He doesn’t have a wand anymore and he’s always had a philosophy of sitting back and letting me get myself out of situations rather than, oh, I don’t know, casting a spell to prevent doxies from catching up with me. Apparently that’s how one learns not to disturb doxy nests. _

_ So he’s instructing me about the variations on Sagitta spells, demonstrating wand movements with a stick he picked up, going on about honour and posture and Merlin only knows what else and finally he stops, makes me stop and put out my wand. There’s a young buck within eyeshot (I cannot fathom distances and I will not attempt to), though he had to do a great deal of pointing before the thing was in  _ _ my _ _ eyeshot. And then, talking quietly, as if the creature will hear us from, I don’t know, let’s say a hundred miles away, he tells me that everything he has told me so far is what I am allowed to relate to others and I must only use that knowledge when others can see. Intriguing, isn’t it! Then he tells me a new spell (and I’m sorry Potter, I honestly cannot share it with you, bad enough that I tell you this much) that will seek out the creature I am thinking about and hit it with astounding accuracy regardless of my aim, which is allowed and even encouraged when I can sneakily get away with it. _

_ So, naturally, this is the spell I used on the deer. Which we then had to fetch and carry back and it was sunrise by the time we made it back to the tent. I have been given the homework of taking down the pheasants with the Sagitta variety so that when I am observed, people will see what an excellent shot I am. The whole thing is ridiculous, but I have to say it was nice to hear him talking as if we’ll be stopping by the country club any day now. Oh, and then my mother butchered a fucking deer in front of me so I threw up extravagantly.  _

_ Go on then, tell me about one of those Weasleys.  _

_ Reluctantly (complying with absurd sign offs), _

_ Draco _

  
16th September, 1998

Malfoy,

I forgot I’d told you about not wanting to go back to my house. I forget nearly everything I’ve written as soon as I’ve sent it off right up until you comment on it. I should make copies. I bet you make copies.

I wrote back because you did. And, okay, the first time was a bit because Kingsley and a few other “important people” had owled me and Hermione was on me to reply, so I sat at the table where she’d got me nice parchment and a freshly sharpened quill and a cup of tea and I did not even a little bit want to do as I’d been told. I’m a bit over that, if I’m being honest. But she was right there, not  listening , not intentionally, just ... I knew she’d come and ask if I was okay if she could tell I wasn’t getting on with things. 

So I pulled your letter out of my pocket and it took me a bit to reply, but once I’d sent Titus off with it I had become accidentally okay with at least reading Kingsley’s letter, so it was actually a really good decision of mine to procrastinate. And this time I’m actually alone in the house, so it’s not that I need to look productive, don’t get your wand in a knot about my using you or whatever.

I hadn’t heard of Arcturus Black before. I mean, I knew the name, I didn’t know his story. I decided to go to my house and see if it was in there. (I assume you know that I inherited the Black townhouse.) It was a fucking mess (obviously) and full of curses (also obviously) but I guess I sounded insistent on being able to poke around it a bit so Ron and Hermione and some other people from school came and helped me get it to a place where it probably wouldn’t try and kill me just for walking into the kitchen. Which took over a week. Super low bar, and yet it took a week. 

Anyway, even though they’d done a lot of damage and cursing and graffiti, the Death Eaters who trashed my place clearly didn’t give a shit about the books. The family tree was still intact too, so I visited Arcturus’s name before I found his book.  Books. I found the ballad you were talking about, which was actually very funny and entertaining and the mental image of a little Malfoy getting excited about dragons was fantastic, so thank you for that. I also found a novel along a similar vein but long and a non fiction book which Hermione immediately stole. If you want a borrow, let me know. I’ve left writing this a couple weeks so she’s definitely finished with it but it didn’t occur to her to give it back. Maybe she thinks we’re sharing a bookshelf. Maybe we  are sharing a bookshelf.

I liked your hunting story. I was a little disturbed by it, but mostly I liked it. I could have used a few of those spells last year. Are you killing your own meat because you can’t go to the butcher’s? Because you should be allowed to go to the butcher’s. And where are you getting the other food you need?

Okay, so, story. All my interesting stories are way too interesting and therefore public knowledge and I don’t think I have the other kind. I sort of just wander around, waiting for some snake-faced maniac to try and do me in. That sounded funnier in my head. 

I’ve come back to this letter a couple weeks after starting it. I had to ask everyone I could find whether anything I’d done where there hadn’t been risk of death had been story-worthy. So, here’s a collection of stories about me doing that, and maybe it’ll give you that insight you asked for.

I asked Ron first. He said “nah, you’re just not that interesting, mate” and then charmed a wash-brush to hit me over the head. 

I asked Hermione, who asked me if I was feeling alright and told me that it was perfectly normal to search for meaning in my life and that she had expected me to feel at a loss with the driving motivation from my last seven years gone, and when I told her I was just trying to think of something interesting to send to my pen pal she told me off for letting her go on like that and then assured me that I’m very interesting and the thing about writing letters is that you can describe going to the shops in them and it fills up the page. I didn’t point out that I don’t go to the shops, but I think this almost counts as following her advice.

I asked Mr Weasley, who told me that he has seven children and if he knew anything it was that there were plenty of stories that parents didn’t know about and most of them don’t entail serious danger, just the fun kind. And then he went to his shed very abruptly and I didn’t realise until later that he doesn’t have seven children anymore and I felt terrible even though I hadn’t meant for it to happen.

I asked Mrs Weasley who said that everything I do is interesting to her, and besides you can make anything into a story. Then she told me all about the woman in the village who makes woollen dresses and such, but they’re slutty? She didn’t  say they were slutty, but she talked a lot about the misuse of knitcraft and said, “ really , at a  farmers market ” and also how she understood that fashion was a moving trend but some things were classics and you could never go wrong with modesty. It was such a long conversation, Malfoy. I kind of loved it.

I asked Luna, who took me for a walk that lasted all day and we barely said anything at all. I was a bit nervous with it being just the two of us, you know? But she just led the way and god, it was beautiful. So many wildflowers. So many bloody hills, but that was magical too. I told her it seemed like somewhere fairies could live and she said of course they did, which was ridiculous because I’d only gone and forgotten fairies were real. I think she was giving me something to describe, but I’m not good at that. It was peaceful. We held hands a lot. She’s so easy with her affection, it doesn’t cost her anything at all. 

I asked Percy and he asked if I was working on my autobiography and advised me to get a ghost writer, or probably just let Hermione do it. So then I stopped asking people. But I wanted to say thank you, because it’s been difficult, trying to think of things to say that aren’t awful. Sorry this took so long. I’ve sort of explained why.

Belatedly,

Harry

_2nd October, 1998_

_Potter,_

_ Pen pal. You called me your pen pal. How atrocious, I absolutely love it. I’ve introduced myself to a horse as Harry Potter’s pen pal and she laughed at me, which was quite wise of her. My mother said, “Goodness, whatever is wrong with correspondent,” which tickled me because that’s the word  _ _ I _ _ used (you’re quite right, I do keep copies) and my father said, “Come along, Harry Potter’s pen pal, if we don’t finish the entranceway this week I shall burn the whole manor down.” So, you see I was quite doomed to theatrics from the beginning.  _

_ And, as that is a segue, I will update you on our progress towards the Manor. We are no longer living in the tent! It wasn’t actually as bad as I imagine your house was, as You-Know-Who did still live here and the band of merry fuck-ups therefore couldn’t destroy too much without risking his displeasure. Just as in your house, most of the books are intact, though they did repurpose some for starting fires (I believe that was the doing of the few werewolves who did not have wands that Greyback brought). The kitchen is perfect, though the pantries and wine cellar are much depleted. The furniture is fucked, to put it mildly. Again, Greyback’s lot or maybe some other maniacs have put their claws in the walls as the manor did not come equipped with man-sized scratching posts. Some rooms have collapsed entirely. They just ... broke things when they were bored. They’d been using the second drawing room as a lavatory, as if we don’t have plenty, as if cleaning spells are difficult, as if ... they just hated us. The house is a monument to our humiliation.  _

_ Good grief, I’ve gone maudlin. Moving on! _

_ You’re quite right to prioritise our pen palship over your letters from the Minister for Magic. I am clearly a delightful person to receive mail from. And now I’m being sarcastic, so I’m going to go to Sainsbury’s and amuse myself. _

_ I am back and am much amused. The check-out boy, his name is Dave, he feels obliged to make conversation with me and I’ve collected some Muggle phrases to say to him. “That football game was marvellous. I enjoy how they run along the ground and only score three points each time,” to which he said, “What are you on about, it was a zero all draw” and I laughed until he’d finished bagging everything up. Whenever I go, I buy the things we need and also something that baffles me entirely. Today the item is something called a bath bomb! We shall see what this means in due time. I personally don’t believe explosives and nudity are natural bedmates, but I no longer approach these experimental purchases with complete scepticism since the “thermos”, which keeps a drink warm for hours after pouring it into it without that metallic taste that charms sometimes have.  _

_ As you can perhaps deduce, we have been giving the Muggle town our patronage rather than whatever it was the house elves did. We know about owl orders and the like, but we don’t actually own an owl at present and anyway we don’t know if we could trust our things to arrive unscathed. So you may put your hero complex and your penis away, we are in need of neither. _

_ I enjoyed all your stories. Genuinely. You have inspired me to write to Luna, who used to try and cheer  _ _ me _ _ up when she was, well, you know. Staying here. Everyone seems to know how to handle you, which I much enjoyed. I think my favourite was Mrs Weasley, because last time we went to Diagon Alley together my mother covered my eyes on the Muggle side to protect me from the depravity of youth fashion, an action that both greatly amused me and greatly frustrated me. I very much wanted to see that depravity. _

_ Here’s my story: I had a date with a Muggle girl last week. She took me to the cinema, which was terrifying because our town doesn’t have one and so she had to drive me and I had to pretend to be perfectly okay with being in a metal cage hurtling down lanes that really don’t have room for two vehicles most of the time. I  _ _ know _ _ they don’t because at one point she had to reverse until there  _ _ was _ _ room for another car to get past.  _

_ The film was a “romantic comedy” in which a man and a woman were communicating over e-mail and also kept running into each other in real life, but they had no idea that the e-mail correspondent was the person they hated in real life. It was the best movie I have ever seen. Also the only one. But it was spectacular. I told Sophie (my date’s name is Sophie) that I had never been so moved by a story, which she found to be hilarious. She said I have a dry sense of humour. I think films are my medium, books are now useless to me. Please ask your lot if they know how to make films work inside a magical house. Apparently this can be done inside Muggle houses, and once I had convinced Sophie that I did genuinely enjoy the film she invited me to come and see one at her house some time. (I had to tell her I’m just dramatic, not sarcastic. Though I am that too.)  _ _ Films _ _ , Potter. I’m going to take my parents to see one as soon as I can scope the neighbouring town for safe Apparation points.  _

_ Delightedly, _

_ Draco _

  
14th November, 1998

Malfoy,

I think we both have to accept that portions of our letters are just going to be depressing. I talked to Hermione about how that seems to be an inevitability of every conversation and she said that was okay, just like that. And then she told me that what weighed heavy on me likely didn’t weigh quite so heavy on those listening to me, so I shouldn’t feel guilty about expressing my feelings, which made me kind of offended? Until I realised that I could be sympathetic when listening to Neville talk about his year without it utterly crushing me and he looked pretty crushed, so I think I’ll try and take that advice. You should too. You probably needed to tell me about the Manor and while I wanted to make you a cup of tea when I read it, it didn’t ruin my day or anything.

I can’t imagine you in a Sainsbury’s. I can’t imagine you in a cinema. I can’t imagine you loving romantic comedies. There was just so much information in your letter that left me reeling. 

I’ve had several long conversations with Mr Weasley and Hermione about how we could get a television working in a magical home. When I say conversations, I mean that I said, “Hey, do you think we could get a television working in a magical home?” and then they said so many things I didn’t understand. We’re experimenting in Mr Weasley’s shed, because it’s magical but if we fuck up and cause a blip in the magic, four stories won’t fall onto our heads. I don’t think we’ve made much progress, but Mr Weasley is so excited to have co-conspirators in his hobby, so it’s already a worthy project. I’ll let you know when we have news.

Okay, actually, this letter is looking too short, let me go over what we’ve done so far. So, electricity is delivered through wires which run through those giant poles you’ll have seen all around. Wait, do you know what a wire is? It’s like string but plastic on the outside and more strings of copper inside. And the wires conduct electricity, allow it to travel from the places that generate it to people’s houses. The Burrow obviously isn’t hooked up to this network because it’d damage one or the other, and we’re not going to mess with it while we experiment, so we’ve got a generator, which is like a box that stores a small amount of electricity in it. It died immediately when we got it too close to the house. 

So that’s our first project, which Hermione has taken to mean “find out exactly how generators work” and Mr Weasley has taken to mean “pull every file that refers to magic and electricity interacting from the Ministry archives”. Thing is, wizards can go into places that are full of electricity and do magic no problem and I’ve used my wand directly on electric lights. We’re confident we can crack this. I say “we”. My job is to listen to everything they say and occasionally rephrase it in such a way that makes them realise something new they want to read up on, by virtue of my putting it in a weird, probably wrong way.

Apart from that, McGonagall and Kingsley dragged me into the Ministry to have a meeting about O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s with a few other classmates, examiners, school board members. In second year, Dumbledore cancelled all exams because of the whole Chamber of Secrets thing, which means they weren’t fussed about cancelling all of those for next year, just so that there’s less stress on the students returning, though there was still a lot of debate about that and whether the students would be motivated to study knowing that there were no exams at the end of the year. Obviously none of the exams, including O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, took place last school year, seeing as school abruptly ended in May. But the students are back at school now and we need to think about this stuff for the next year.

“We” I say, as if my opinion remotely matters. I mean, I guess I’m glad that they’re consulting students about it. That seems important. I’m glad Hermione was consulted at the very least. I just wish I wasn’t. It’s not like my skills at not dying transfer over to procedure and shit.

Anyway, we would have been having this meeting in August if it weren’t for the fact that they weren’t even sure they’d be able to open the school for September 1st. So we spent three and a half hours arguing over whether we should just grant the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. students from last school year passes in all the subjects they’d chosen.  Eventually, we all agreed that actually some employers would judge students for not having completed them regardless of the circumstances, even if they didn’t realise they were doing it. So it’s better to at least give students the option. 

We then spent two hours arguing about whether to invite students who didn’t complete their seventh year to come back this year even though it’s already fucking November and they’re behind and traumatised as it is without having a shorter year to prepare. They’ll get an invitation for to come back next year in March, so there’s plenty of time to think about it. They’re anticipating questions from the potential students, so they’re delaying it until they’ve got their feet under them.

A million reporters ambushed me with cameras and wanting me to say things when we came out. We were in that room arguing about nothing all day, I was exhausted and they wanted ... I don’t even know what they want from me. They asked what I’d been doing, which I couldn’t tell them, they asked me what I wanted to say to their readers, which was nothing, they shouted war stories at me and asked for my opinion, they even asked about my dating life  at the same time that some other reporter was telling me about war orphans. I hate it, I hate it so much. I’m never leaving the house again.

I also hate reading over this really boring and sad letter, but as I said at the top, I’m trying to work on not feeling guilt for saying things, so you’re still getting this. Can you tell me about your Christmas plans or something? I don’t know. Something happy. I hope Sophie showed you another romantic comedy. 

Boringly (and sadly),

Harry

  
_ 17th December, 1998 _

_Potter,_

_ WHAT THE FUCK, POTTER? WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THINGS THE PUBLIC SHOULDN’T KNOW?  _ _ I’M _ _ THE PUBLIC! _

_ Okay, that’s that sorted. You’re an utter moron, how did you beat me in Defence, I demand a recount. Tragically, your VERY SECRET meeting is interesting to me and I must comment on it. While I would have liked to just  _ _ have _ _ my N.E.W.T.s, I do agree with your decision that they must be earned. I have no idea whether I will do that. Earning things isn’t quite my thing. That was a joke, Potter, do pretend to be amused. Mostly I’m wondering when the Ministry will remember my family exists. It sounds like they’re several months behind essential meetings, and we’re really quite harmless.  _

_ Those poor sixth years, now seventh. The ones who were seventeen, who went back after that. The ones who lied and were at the battle anyway. Those poor  _ _ first _ _ years, going in clueless. I wouldn’t wish Slytherin on any of them, and yet I loved it. Our common room pressed against the Lake, it made everything  _ _ unearthly _ _ and so, so beautiful. It could have been cold but there were always fires going. You had to go through a labyrinth of dungeons to get to it, it was so easy to get lost but the older kids looked after the little ones. I remember Marcus Flint standing in some alcove and coughing so I saw him, then nudging his head in the right direction. I thought it was a secret, that he showed me the way because he liked me. That’s how I wanted to make the little ones feel, like they’d done something brilliant by winning me over.  _

_ And poor Harry Potter as well. That very well may have been sarcastic, once. But that kind of fame sounds horrific. No wonder you’re a shut in. Get yourself to a Sainsbury’s, it’s good for the soul. They sell tomatoes  _ _ in tins. _ _ You just open the tin and pour them out! They’re there all year! Mental. _

_ On that topic, as well as the topic of your very endearing research into bringing my cinema obsession to The Manor, I have news. I have bought a Muggle house in Marlborough.  _

_ It was the only thing to do. There’s only seven-thousand or so people who live there, which sounds like plenty but actually means a large portion of them noticed the devlishly handsome new boy roaming about and wondered where I had come from and where I lived. So now I own a house! Real estate is always a good investment, Potter. _

_ I love my house. It’s a little cottage, just an upstairs and a downstairs. I have filled it with the most absurd furniture. I took some from the Manor to get myself started and then Sophie took me to this large warehouse type space that was full of all sorts of things that were supposed to be in separate stalls, but there was certainly no organisation I could see. We bought some very foolish things, I think she was testing to find out where my price limit was. I pretended to have one, as well as a taste limit, just so that she wouldn’t think I’m in love with her already. And then she took me to IKEA, because I needed “storage solutions” and “furniture that serves a purpose”. It was wonderful. And I have a TV! That’s what Sophie calls televisions, because she’s too lazy to say the full word. Also a VHS, which means video home system, but I’m not to call it that because no one will know what I’m talking about. _

_ I do want to move back to the Manor at some point, so I would actually appreciate your solving this whole electricity conundrum. And it sounds like it’s a good pursuit for you anyway, therefore I will neglect to feel selfish for telling you to pursue it. And my parents still live there most of the time, though they make use of my spare bedroom sometimes. They are  _ _ so _ _ exasperated with my decorating, but they can’t order anything from the magical world because we’re not doing that and there is one furniture shop in Marlborough and it has very, very little, so they are stuck with it. You should have seen my father trying to compliment the rug I got that looks like a giant, lurid-pink flower.  _

_ Things are going very well with Sophie, by the way. We have gone to the cinema several more times and have spent even more evenings at one of our houses watching films. Four Weddings and a Funeral has been my favourite so far, we watched that at Sophie’s and I went to try and buy my own copy the very next day, but Mrs Tsiolkas has a  _ _ very _ _ limited selection of films. I’ve told her that I will buy a copy immediately if she gets it in and she promised to do her best. See, Sophie only lets me rewatch a film once. But I have my own video home system and so therefore have watched Sleepless in Seattle at least eight times, once with my parents. They are only moderately scared of my television and other appliances. My mother cooked toast yesterday and screamed when the toast popped up and I thought I was actually going to wee myself I laughed so hard. _

_ Christmas is now close. I have decorated my cottage to excess, and Sophie’s house to the utter dismay of her brother who she lives with. I’m going to spend Christmas day at my cottage with my parents. Though it’s a very strange place, they agree that The Manor is simply too big to feel cosy and besides, disrepair, curses, etc. I’ve been learning to cook the Muggle way, but my mother will cook at the Manor and bring it down rather than attempt a roast in this so-called oven I have.  _

_ I know this letter has been practically giddy and I hope that it finds you in similar Christmassy spirit. Even if it does not, we will carry on. Your philosophy on listening and talking has helped me, even if I’m not sharing the less than fabulous parts of my life in this letter. It helped me talk to my parents about some things. I don’t know if it helped my mental state to talk about it, but I hear that it does and besides, my parents were pleased that I trusted them with my thoughts. Isn’t that something? The idea that my talking quite selfishly was received with  _ _ gratitude. _ _ I honestly don’t quite know what to do about it. Talk more, I suppose.  _

_ Please tell me about your Christmas. And your New Years, should that be a date you celebrate. Get a lawyer, because one of those reporters is going to cross a line at some point and you would do to have someone in your corner before that occurs. And, for Circe’s sake, go and find a Sainsbury’s. Have a little panic about mashed potato in a box or purchase a key chain, normal supermarket things, it will do you some good. _

_ My parents send their Christmas best wishes, as does Sophie (who knows you as my pen pal, so process that as you will) and Dave, the Sainsbury’s check-out boy (who knows you as my nemesis with whom I correspond for nefarious reasons). I send you mine too, I guess. You’re very needy, Potter, look at all these messages I’ve had to record. My poor hand is just about ready to fall off. _

_ Jovially, _

_ Draco _

  
30th December, 1998

Malfoy,

Your letter made me laugh loudly enough that I had to tell Molly that your mother was startled by a toaster, and saying it out loud made me laugh even more. I needed that. (I am now instructed to call Molly and Arthur by their given names, or I have been instructed with greater fervour than before and I’ve given in. They pointed out that it’s ridiculous when I have no problem calling Andromeda by her name. I thought I’d practice while writing to you to try and keep it straight in my head.)

Merry Christmas, you absolute tosser. Though it’s done now, and the year will be done tomorrow. It’ll pass without any much comment, really. Might stay up till midnight and toast it in, but nothing momentous. Christmas was lovely, though. With the exception of last year when a snake disguised as a dead body tried to kill me (ah, my life), my Christmases since I turned eleven have all been wonderful.

This one was more subdued than usual, understandably, but it was good. Molly made enough food to feed five hundred and we all ate until we were genuinely uncomfortable. It was the Weasleys, Luna and her dad, Andromeda and Teddy, Neville and his grandmother, and Hagrid. George surprised us with fireworks after dinner and everyone got a bit teary about how he made something new on his own.

Teddy is a marvel. I don’t think I’ve mentioned him till now, but I see him at least once a week and I think he grows every time I see him. He’s crawling now, so fast, Malfoy, I don’t think I could crawl as fast, he’s constantly getting into things we don’t want him to. And he’s teething, feels like he has been for about ten years, but he’s got these little white teases of teeth poking through at the front. His eyes and tiny wisps of hair change colour a lot, they tend to match the person who’s holding him or who held him last. He likes it when I sing, which makes him the only person in the world who likes my singing voice. I sing Beatles songs to him because I don’t like it when nursery rhymes get stuck in my head and anyway he loves it when I sing Yellow Submarine, so that’s what he gets.

I almost want you to send me pictures of your cottage, but it might be better in my head. Is there a reason you wanted to depart so far from the style you grew up with? I have no idea how I’m going to decorate my house once I’ve cleared out all the broken things. Definitely no decapitated house elf heads.

Almost everyone has come to check in on our electricity project. Arthur decided he would get a permit for messing around with Muggle items and was actually given a grant to research it, because apparently this kind of thing is in fashion right now. Makes sense, they want to distance themselves from everything. The important thing is that we could buy another generator with Ministry money and we’ll be able to get the other appliances too, making the whole thing feel more official.

Hermione has taken the generator apart and we’re working on charming the individual parts. The thing works by using fuel to make the engine turn, to put it in the kinds of simple terms they explain it to me in. We need to maintain the base structure because we don’t want to overload it with a too-strong charm. But we are genuinely making progress in isolating the parts that don’t get along with the heavy magic around The Burrow and in surrounding them or replacing them with magic. Arthur said in a very cheery way that once we get this sorted, undoubtedly the appliances we connect to the generator will need to go through the same process, which probably should have been obvious but made the whole thing feel like it’ll take an eternity. I’ll keep you updated.

Peacefully,

Harry

P.S. I went to a Sainsbury’s and it was actually lovely. I bought nail polish because I thought a worker was looking at me like I was stealing and it was in front of me and now my nails are bright red, courtesy of Ron, who is better at painting nails than Hermione.


	2. 1999 - Jan - May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco continue to share more and more intimate stories from their lives. And then the promise of plot happens.

_ 23rd January, 1999 _

_Potter,_

_ I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this, but it’s either you, my parents, or Dave the check-out boy, who thinks I’m delightfully insane and therefore I don’t want to expose him to my humanity.  _

_ Sophie and I broke up. We’re still friends, which is probably the problem. We were having so much fun dating, but we were really just hanging out. When we kissed, it felt like a lovely way to be closer to her, so much so that I didn’t realise that there wasn’t real passion underneath. And then we attempted to sleep together and neither of us were remotely into it. It resulted in us both complaining, “But you’re so pretty!”,  _ _ very _ _ frustrated that it wasn’t working, but alas, these things cannot be forced.  _

_ It was  _ _ so annoying _ _ to have to break up with her, because I had thought that this would ruin everything and we were having so much fun together, but then we ran into each other when we were both getting a curry one night and she asked me if I wanted to go back to her house and watch Titanic, which I really did. It was a bit awkward at first, but we had food and a movie to distract us, and then there was a sex scene and it was so awkward that we couldn’t stop laughing right through to the next scene and we kept getting the giggles for the rest of the film, even though it was quite serious. _

_ It’s not quite back to normal, but it’s quite good. She tells me I must make another friend, because it was one thing for her to be my whole world while we were dating but it’s ridiculous now. As such, I am going to attempt to go to the pub. I have heard this is where you can make friends.  _

_ My parents know we broke up and my mother is convinced I’m heartbroken but hiding it very well. I had to let her fuss about for a while. It wasn’t actually a hardship, I think we all enjoyed the experience of such a mundane reason to be sad. My mother said I’m far too handsome for her, though she hasn’t actually met her and Sophie is genuinely very beautiful, like a deer with too many earrings. When I said this to my mother, I provoked yet more sympathy because apparently it was evidence of my deep love and therefore deep pain. _

_ I needed to get that off my chest, so now I can respond to your letter.  _

_ It sounds like you had a good amount of company for Christmas. I’m glad to hear my cousin is doing so well; I was sorry to hear he was orphaned and it’s nice to hear that he still has family. My asking after who The Beatles are resulted in Sophie wondering after my mental health and my purchasing a a CD player, so I’ve started a collection of CDs to go with my VHSs. The Beatles are fine, but have you heard of the Spice Girls? _

_ I like hearing about Teddy. I haven’t been around small children in nearly ten years, not since Millie’s niece used to come with her and her family to the Manor. She was like a little loaf of bread when I first met her and last time I saw her would not stop talking for a single minute. I would ask you to pass on my regards to him and my aunt, but perhaps not just yet.  _

_ Restoring a home is a good project. I’m still helping at the Manor most days, though my parents are encouraging me to only spend a few hours up there at a time. I am trying to pass as a normal Muggle, which actually involves a fair bit of research and I spend quite a bit of time in the encyclopedia section of the library.  _

_ You may be wondering how I managed at all to begin with, the clothes and the money and such that so many wizards utterly fail to grasp. Well, Blaise took Muggle Studies and I helped him study for his exams. He intended to use it so that he could marry a member of one royal family or another. The grand duke of Luxembourg was his last obsession, but his mother was disapproving of the duke’s age. Barely older than us. She wanted him to have a nice, old partner, someone who would die and leave him with a lot of money while he was still young enough to remarry. _

_ Your electricity project continues to intrigue me. Sophie tells me that no one knows how any of the appliances work, they just use them, so I’m not bothering to educate myself to the extent that your lot are. As I have said, knowing things like who The Beatles are is more important to maintain my claims at normalcy.  _

_ I’m delighted that you have discovered the wonder that is Sainsbury’s. I have told check-out Dave that my nemesis has acknowledged my claims that it is a deeply healing place. He told me to bugger off and I told him that it was his charms that had first led me to spiritual peace within the absurdly illuminated halls of mass production. He was only pissy with me because Liverpool lost their match. Liverpool is a football team and they didn’t score a single point. It’s a very stupid sport. _

_ Right, well your story actually took place at the top of this letter so I shan’t give you another. And besides, I need to get ready to go to the pub. I’m quite nervous, actually. Perhaps I will meet another beautiful woman with too many piercings in her ears and an easy laugh and I’ll have two Sophies.  _

_ Abandonedly, _

_ Draco _

  
  


_ 12th February, 1999 _

_Potter,_

_ I’m not typically one to owl twice without a response and I’m very much aware that you take your time in replying to me (whereas I am the pinnacle of respectability and promptness), but look! I have purchased an owl! Her name is Cassiopeia and she is absolutely wonderful, I haven’t been gored to death even once. She has no pedigree but she is a  _ _ queen, _ _ I can tell from the way she carries herself.  _

_ She lives in my bedroom so that any Muggle visitors don’t fret about my keeping her all cooped up, which is something they may do. They have quite exacting standards for the treatment of animals and owls are considered wild and dangerous, which they are of course, but there’s a respect between them and wizards that allows us to keep them. I read about such things at the library and very nearly bought a kestrel in excitement, but they don’t carry mail. And, astonishingly, no one cared about my going into the wizarding village and purchasing her. I didn’t dare go to Diagon, but perhaps I’m not as recognisable as I’d thought. This is very cheering. _

_ To update you on my social life, I have been to the pub quite a bit, often with Sophie and her new friend, Chelsea. Chelsea moved here to study the henges nearby, but she’s living here in a reasonable place with a Sainsbury’s rather than in Avebury (where her work is) itself. I have told her that if she wants to study magic then she should be staying right here, not swanning off to Avebury, because Merlin himself was buried here. Sophie backed me up, though she thinks it’s only a story. For “only a story”, the whole town is quite devoted to the theme. Chelsea only told me that she’s not studying  _ _ magic, _ _ she’s studying archeology, whatever that is. I keep forgetting to look it up. _

_ I also accidentally spent an evening with check-out Dave at the pub after running into him, and he taught me the rules to football and gave me a very enthusiastic one-armed hug when Liverpool scored. The referees are apparently all bastards and Manchester United can go and fuck themselves. I have told him I will pick my own team in good time, I’m just waiting to have a greater handle on the sport before I do. I remember nothing of the rules and don’t intend to. _

_ This interaction with check-out Dave, who I suppose I should just call Dave now, led to us meeting at the pub several more times and he has introduced me to his friend Faizan, who is a genderqueer person from Pakistan and who tells the best jokes I have ever heard. It’s not even the content, it’s in their mannerisms. I asked entirely too many questions about what “genderqueer” means because I was a bit drunk (or I would have just looked it up at the library next time), but they seemed to like the attention. So there, I now have four friends. And none of them like me for my name or my money, for only Sophie knows I have any and even so she insists on paying half the time when we do things together. _

_ Repairs at the Manor are progressing. It’s just such a large fucking place. A millennia of entirely unnecessary additions. Well, no, I quite like the modern facilities and the rooms that the Tudor Malfoys added are particularly lovely, but it does make it inconvenient for repairing.  _

_ Now, as my stories haven’t taken up that long and to ensure you have something to talk about in your letter, I shall ask you some questions. _

_ Who was your best friend growing up? Mine was Pansy, who was an absolute beast to me, but she was quite devoted once I got my head around making friends at the age of nine. And she really was understanding prior to that, which is more than I can say for the rest. Yes, this brilliantly social creature you find metaphorically in front of you was once not nearly as skilled at the art of friend-making. Astonishing, I know. _

_ What is your favourite film? Mine is Romeo + Juliet, solely because of Mercutio. No, every aspect of it is brilliant, even if Mercutio steals the show whenever he’s on camera. I get thrills at the swimming pool scene every time I watch it, because what if they get caught! And Romeo doesn’t care one bit, he’d start a war for a kiss. He’d start a war for a glimpse of Juliet.  _

_ What is your favourite meal? Mine is pasta. All pasta. Pasta is divine. _

_ Have you told your friends that we do this? Mine all know your name, that we went to school together, that we’re writing. They know random things about you, like that we played on opposite Quidditch teams (which I told them was a sport our school made up and basically only described the Chaser and Keeper portions of it), that you have atrocious handwriting and that I once made badges that said “POTTER STINKS” on them. Sophie tells me to say “hello” from her.  _

_ It has occurred to me that perhaps you don’t want to owl me anymore. I will somehow carry on if this is the case, but you could have told me. _

_ Resiliently,  _

_ Draco _

  
  


26th February, 1999

Malfoy,

You’re very dramatic and I hope your friends tell you that all the time. I haven’t stopped owling you just because I let a few weeks go by, I’ve been busy. Grimmauld Place is ready for painting. I’m actually a bit panicky about that, could you send back a very quick note to tell me painting advice and then do your long bullshit one whenever you get around to it? Which, by the way, you are nearly as bad as me at. We’re not that far from each other, I’m sure our owls deliver the letters on the same day we send them, but it’s always at least two weeks before I get a reply. I will  graciously admit that I probably take longer than you. Your owl is very beautiful and you’re right to be proud of her.

I’m glad your own home repairs are progressing. I think I had the advantage of being able to throw away almost everything. The things that belonged to my godfather were pretty obviously his and he hated everything else. I want to make this place nice almost out of spite. To make it a place he would have liked to live. And fuck the idea that I can’t have it, I have more memories of him here than I do anywhere else, I want to be able to live in a place where I had family for a little while. 

I feel like I should tell you that I’m sorry about you and Sophie breaking up, and I  am sorry because I’m sure you both felt at least some distress, but it sounds like you have a better thing going now. 

And you shared that with me, so I should too.

Ginny and I tried to get back together after the battle, but we made it about three weeks on sheer denial before she told me it wasn’t working. She said “we’d drifted”, which I suppose is one way of putting it. And then, immediately after, she said, “Also, you’re gay?” to which I said, “No?” and she said, “Harry, you’re probably gay.” And there’s not much you can say to that, is there? I don’t know, maybe you could have thought of something. You seem to be good at comebacks. 

And I’ll actually fly over to Wiltshire and punch you in the dick if you tell anyone this, but after thinking about it for a couple of days, I realised she was right. Which is pretty fucking humiliating, actually. I didn’t even figure it out myself, my girlfriend had to tell me. Not that I’m going to do anything about it for a million years, but there it is. Ron actually tried to set me up with Charlie, as if I could swap one available Weasley for another, but I guess that was supportive. Hermione gave me a lot of books, so I had actually heard of genderqueer people before your letter.  ~~ Luna told ~~

I have heard of the Spice Girls and I probably shouldn’t be surprised that you like them. I like Radiohead, add them to your list to check out. They’re weird, I think that’s why I like them. Their album Street Spirit might sound familiar to you. Perfect for some Montague angst. But OK Computer is their masterpiece and Pablo Honey is brilliant too. 

Your friends sound fantastic, so I have no idea how they put up with you. Shockingly, that’s actually a joke. I like talking to you. Writing to you. And yeah, my friends know that we’re doing this, I sometimes read them a sentence when you’re particularly ridiculous. I don’t think they get it, but it’s hard to find people who are normal with me. I’ve thought about trying to make friends with Muggles like you, but I’m a total shut in and I don’t know how to change that. I’ve been going to the local market with Molly, she sells knitted clothes and teddy bears and some fruit and veg from her garden once a month, but tentatively smiling at villagers as they browse isn’t exactly socialising. I don’t know how people make friends. I’m not about to bother Sainsbury employees, so don’t suggest that. How did you meet Sophie?

I didn’t have any friends before Hogwarts. My cousin bullied anyone who talked to me and not many kids wanted to, seeing as I was this skinny kid in way too big clothes who got beat up by my cousin’s gang regularly and who weird things happened to.

My favourite movie is probably Star Wars: A New Hope. The other two are good, but the first one is my favourite. I always liked stories that had magic in them, but my aunt and uncle forbade anything like that in the house. I saw the first half of A New Hope when they left me at home while they took Dudley out for his birthday one year and finally saw it in its entirety in October at Hermione’s parents’ house. That’s kind of thanks to you. I started talking about movies and Hermione asked if there was any I wanted to see. 

My favourite meal is roast lamb with all the trimmings. Molly makes the best Yorkshire puddings in the world. I know that’s a bit boring, but it’s true. The fact that Hogwarts did a roast every Sunday was incredible. 

The generator is officially working, not only on the outskirts of The Burrow’s magical field, but inside the actual house. Molly was horrified we brought it in, but we thought we should test that we’d gotten it right. We also took it to Grimmauld Place, because the magic there is older and openly hostile to Muggles, and it still worked. Arthur and Hermione have written up everything they tested and what worked in a paper for the Ministry and now we have a dismantled television in the shed. 

I’ve been spending more time with Luna, who says she writes to you too. She says she’s glad we’re friends now and gave me a lot of shit about me using your last name (by which I mean she asked me why I do that with a look of unbearable curiosity). We go for long walks and transform the snow into interesting sculptures. She’s much better than me, but last time I made a pretty passable go at a stag, which I think turned out so well because my wand is used to the shape. My Patronus is one, not sure if you know that. Sometimes we sit in her room and she sews and I read.

I think I’m starting to get restless again, but I don’t know what I want to do with myself. Clearing out Grimmauld Place was a good outlet because it was me driving it and it was pretty physical. I hope doing it up will be good too, but part of me is itching for something new. I haven’t gone this long without dealing with a threat to the wizarding world since I was eleven. Not that I miss it, I’m just ... yeah, restless is the word.

Restlessly,

Harry

  
  


_ 27th February, 1999 _

_Potter,_

_ Light colours will make the room feel brighter, dark will make it cosier. Go with a variety of white for the ceiling, and if the walls are white too, keep the ceiling lighter than them. You’re starting from paint up, so you can just choose your favourite colour and coordinate the furniture and carpet and such to match, seriously, don’t be afraid of bold colours. Your rooms are big enough for it to not feel like too much.  _ _ Paint swatches of your paint on the walls before you commit to painting the whole thing. _ _ Make my room a soft blue. Don’t listen to Granger, she bases her every action on facts and colours aren’t about that. _

_ Tastefully, _

_ Draco _

  
  


_ 17th March, 1999 _

_Potter,_

_ Paint tips out of the way, I can react to your break-up story. Possibly. It’s been a couple of weeks and I’m still processing. _

_ Firstly, I am sorry for you in the same way you expressed sympathy for me; it must have been difficult, no matter the wisdom involved in ending it. Secondly, it is very funny that Ginevra had to tell you what your sexuality is and I cannot pretend otherwise. Thirdly, of course I won’t tell anyone, it’s your business.  _

_ Okay, I told someone. No, not like that. I was at the pub with Dave and Faizan and I asked Faizan where a friend of mine who is gay might find a boyfriend. They thought I was being coy and talking about myself, but when I insisted I was not, Dave pointed out that my only male friend apart from himself is you, to which I insisted that we are absolutely not friends and he should not make assumptions as to my social engagements, but I don’t think he bought it. _

_ Faizan said that you can usually spot queer people who are comfortable in their sexuality, because they want to be spotted. They said you don’t need to find a club, though those do exist, you just need to look for the men who are, and I quote, “dressing like you, Draco.” By which they mean, apparently, that I always have ironed clothes and neat hair and I’m not afraid of wearing colours, that I wear things that look hideous on a hanger but which I pull off. I then got distracted by flirting with them for quite a bit. Apparently most straight men do not care about their appearance or general hygiene, but I am an exception because I am posh. Also my straightness is a fairly tenuous label because while I wasn’t  _ _ quite _ _ being sincere when I flirted with Faizan, I also wouldn’t mind if they thought I was being sincere. No, I’m only playing. (I also would like to state that if being tidy is a signifier of being gay, no wonder you didn’t realise you are.) _

_ The story of how I met Sophie is a touch embarrassing, but apparently we’re at a stage where we can share such things. I was sitting in the park and drinking a coffee, feeling quite fine ... until suddenly I was not. I’m not sure why I started crying, I vividly remember that I wasn’t even thinking about anything traumatising because I was baffled by the fact that it was happening, but whatever the reason it was very sudden and very public and while I was trying to keep somewhat quiet and not make a production of wiping away my tears, Sophie noticed. _

_ I don’t think I’ve described her. She’s not much shorter than me, with brown hair that is shorn down to a friendly and incredibly soft length that tickles against your palm. Her eyes are also brown and very expressive. She was wearing a dress that came down to her calves, big black boots and a cotton scarf, which she gave to me to cry into and refused to accept that I didn’t want to get tears and snot on it. She has six piercings in one ear and one in the other, because sometimes she can feel them pressing into her ear if she sleeps on that side so she thought she’d be mismatched and able to sleep rather than complete the set. I had never spoken to a Muggle outside of bare transactions before, not even Dave because I hadn’t been to his register at that point and I had never talked to anyone remotely like her. Honestly, she scared me until she was close enough to see that she was obviously a very gentle person. _

_ She patted my back until I was done and then asked what the matter was, which I couldn’t answer because firstly, I had no idea and secondly, it was probably the war. I told her I didn’t know and that started me off crying a bit more and she didn’t ask again. When I was recovered, we went for a walk around the park and she told me all about the different plants and didn’t make me talk at all, but she made me laugh and she gave up her Saturday morning to someone she didn’t know, because she’s just a genuinely kind person. So I insisted on laundering her scarf (obviously) and asked her if I could buy her a meal when I returned it. She asked if I meant like a date and I told her I wouldn’t hold her scarf hostage if she didn’t want to date me, but I would like that. She told me that we would have to see how it went and that she’d tell me if it was a date once we had had it. _

_ I don’t quite know why I try and keep these letters cheerful, Merlin knows that if anyone was going to understand my occasional bouts of the blues it would be you, but I think I like to reflect on the nice things I have been doing and omit the less flattering things. And, frankly, it scares me to be vulnerable. _

_ I’ve cried around Sophie many times since then, because we spent every weekend together and many evenings besides and even now we see each other at least three times a week. She’s asked me about it a few times. I’ve told her I had a horrible time of it at school, that I stupidly joined a violent gang and that I had to drop out and move here to escape that life, that I still see the horrible things they did, that they made me do when I sleep. That it creeps up on me. She asked if we rode motorcycles, but hasn’t otherwise pressed me for details. She accepts it when I say I don’t want to talk about it.  _

_ Anyway.  _

_ Your childhood sounds quite different to how I had imagined it. Your cousin sounds like a bastard. My cousins were older than me and always let me know that their having to play with me was a hardship whenever they were in the country. Only one of my father’s brothers had children. His other two brothers died in the last war. _

_ I’m pleased to hear about your occupations. My letters to Luna are quite different to my ones to you. Mostly we invent stories for each other. Your electricity project continues to interest me.  _

_ I have to admit that your decorating project interests me more. I want to hear about what colours you pick for the walls and what you do with the flooring and what kind of furniture you get. I think I went to your house once when I was quite small, but then Auntie Walburga died and it got shut up. All I remember is my father refusing to go and my mother making me tell Auntie Walburga every story she could think to ask for so that she wouldn’t have to make as much conversation, which was a task because Auntie Walburga said, “That’s quite enough, Narcissa, surely the boy can go and occupy himself elsewhere,” several times.  _

_ Alright, I need to go to bed. I brought my bed from the Manor, it clashes horribly with the IKEA wardrobes.  _

_ Socially, _

_ Draco _

  
13rd April, 1999

Malfoy,

I cannot believe you immediately told people that I’m gay. And I don’t need your help getting a boyfriend, nor anyone else’s, thank you! Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean that I’m bereft without a partner. You might be able to date while you’re at least somewhat a mess, but I don’t think I can. The Weasleys might understand the way I sometimes don’t leave my room for days and shout at people for no reason and struggle to make normal conversation, but I can’t imagine subjecting someone else to this.

See, that story with Sophie, that’s me every other week. Except more shouting. I don’t know why I shout when I’m sad, it’s my least favourite trait. It gets to a point where I can’t tolerate everyone acting normal and I just explode. And they’re not even acting normal, everyone’s fucked up, I’m not alone in this. But I keep making it worse for them and they keep letting me because I was told I had to kill the worst wizard to have ever existed when I was fifteen (and it was pretty much implied when I was eleven) and they think that means I’m in the most pain, but I don’t think that that remotely matters. My only comfort is that we’ve all said stupid shit and one day Molly smashed every plate she had against the wall and we had to eat out of bowls that night, so I’m not alone. I already said that, but it’s worth saying a lot. I’m not alone.

My cousin  was a bastard. I think he’s working on it now, though I could be being stupid and optimistic. He left me a cup of tea before he left to go into hiding and I didn’t even know that he knew how to make one. I know that sounds weak, but I’m going to reach out to him at some point and find out what kind of person he is. I did write to my aunt and uncle to let them know that I was okay after Kingsley retrieved them from their safe house, but they only wrote back to acknowledge they’d gotten the letter and I  really don’t feel any need to mend those bridges. Dudley was a kid who was basically raised to be a bully, my aunt and uncle were cruel adults, there’s a difference.

I haven’t really talked to him since the holidays just before fifth year. He had pretty much left me alone since we found out that I was a wizard, because I “forgot” to tell them that I couldn’t use magic outside of school. They found out, but it wasn’t until those holidays that he’d known and had opportunity to really interact with me, so he decided to have another go at being a bully. I think he was just trying to figure out how to interact with me and had never had a relationship that wasn’t based on either fear or allyship. He could only think of things in terms of domination and didn’t want to be the weak one with me. 

And just when I was ready to hex his nipples off or something for being a bastard, Dementors arrived in the incredibly Muggle suburb where we lived, so I had to save him. And he was terrified, of course he was, and I barely managed to get him home. My aunt and uncle thought I’d attacked him, but eventually I managed to tell them what had happened and that Voldemort was back and my aunt was horrified. I never once talked to any of them about magic except in euphemism, all “your lot” instead of wizards and “that thing” instead of my wand and “you-know-what” instead of magic or whatever. But this one night the magic had affected them directly and we actually talked about it openly for all of half an hour. I haven’t really spoken to any of them for more than what was absolutely necessary since. 

That night sucked. Dumbledore had sent me back to that house after fourth year without telling me why it was so important and I have no idea why he  couldn’t just tell me, and it was right after the Triwizard Tournament so I was pretty shaken and no one was telling me what was going on, which seemed pretty fucking important, given that I’d seen Voldemort come back and I wanted to know what he was doing, and it felt like everyone had just left me in the Muggle world to stress, assuming I was safe. And I fucking wasn’t, Dementors still came for me! I was expelled for about ten minutes there and was probably going to be going right back to being expelled after my trial and I was so alone in a house where I had never been wanted and  still nobody was telling me what was going on.

God, I don’t even know why I told you that. It’s just making me angry again. How difficult would it have been for Dumbledore to take me aside before I went back to tell me that I needed to go back to uphold some magic but that they’d get me out of there as soon as possible, that he was concerned about owls being intercepted so I’d have to manage without news for a bit. I could have borne it if I’d known. I guess I did anyway. Funny that, isn’t it? How you look back at things and wonder how the fuck you got through it, but at the time it wasn’t like there was any other alternative. You just did it. 

Okay, I need to tell a happy story now. Maybe that’s how I’ll manage this, balance the negative with the positive.

So, in the summer before second year, Ron and his brothers came to rescue me from the Dursleys’. Which I’m now realising is a depressing background, but whatever, this is the story I’m telling. Dobby had kept me from receiving letters from my friends so Ron was worried about me, so he and Fred and George drove Arthur’s flying car to come get me. They pulled the bars off my window and broke out my school supplies and drove us all the way to Devon; we got there just as the sun was rising.

I’d never been to a wizard’s house before. Obviously Hogwarts, but that’s a  castle , it’s different and The Burrow might be the most amazing place I’ve ever been. It’s so full, both of people and of things, it’s really hard to describe the experience of walking into it for the first time, and I’ve been here so often now that I can’t remember if Molly had her knitting going by itself or if the cat was sleeping on the stove, I just remember feeling instantly at home, surrounded by magic that was both essential and came as natural as breathing. And as we were sneaking in, one of the twins telling me the plan is to just go to bed and have Ron come down in the morning all “look who showed up in the middle of the night”, all of us genuinely believing there’d be no follow-up from that, Molly caught us.

You’ve witnessed her Howlers, obviously. It’s even more impressive in person, how angry she can get. And in between yelling at the Weasleys, she’s telling me that she doesn’t blame me, that I’m welcome, that I can go and rest while she puts the boys to work. It was incredible. Right now I’m sitting at the kitchen table, writing as Molly bakes. The wireless is on and she’s singing maybe a word or two out of each verse because she clearly barely knows the song. We’ll be having dinner inside tonight because it’s just the six of us, which is still plenty to be chaotic. Tomorrow we’ll have Andromeda and Teddy, probably Luna and her dad as well, it’s been a couple of weeks so they’re due, so we’ll eat in the garden under very strong Warming Charms. 

It’s Teddy’s birthday in a couple of weeks. I’ve got him a toy broomstick. Andromeda is going to kill me, but my godfather got me one for my first birthday so I’m doing the same (which actually makes it more likely to be a terrible and reckless idea, but it’ll be fine). He’s just started to walk properly. It’s amazing how long he stayed standing and monkey-clinging to things and then one day he was just walking. His hair’s getting longer now, which is cute. He was  such a bald baby, barely had any hair at all for six months. It’s usually black, which has more to do with Andromeda than me, but it changes red when he’s particularly pleased with one of the Weasleys. I think he’s going to say my name any minute, Harry seems pretty easy given the syllables he has. He’s already saying “Nanna” for Andromeda.

Look, I know we keep just going on and upping the sharing stakes or friendship stakes, or whatever it is we’re doing, but I wanted to say that I’m glad you’re trusting me with your stories. And it means something that I can tell you mine. I think, no matter what you say to Dave, we probably  are friends, Draco.

Amicably,

Harry

  
  


2nd May, 1999

Draco,

I’m playing a game called “look really busy so that people don’t try to talk to me”. It’s kind of working. For all they know, this could be a really important document. I mean, it is, frankly. My happiness  is important, random people. But you know what I mean. But that’s the reason I’m owling you before you’ve replied to me, in case you think I’m getting clingy.

I’m at Hogwarts. I didn’t want to come and right up until this morning I wasn’t sure if I was going to. Everyone was a mixture of “of course you’ve done enough” and “your being there might bring comfort to people”, so ... I’m here.

It’s shit, Draco. I mean, it’s  not . They’ve done amazing work on the repairs, really, you can barely tell that hundreds of people died here. The gates are lovely, the Quidditch pitch is restored, there’s no rubble. I don’t know why I expected rubble. There’s fewer suits of armour, though. The sky is angrier inside the Great Hall than it is outside. The paintings are more subdued than I remember. 

So anyway, I did a speech. Hermione wrote me one and it was a good speech, but I couldn’t stand up there in front of all those grieving people and look down at notecards. So I said my own thing, trying to remember the main points that Hermione had written. Like, it’s been a year and we’re still healing, we’ll still be healing next year and the year after that, and that’s hard, but it’s also a blessing. And that I was so grateful to the people who had laid down their lives, and the people who had been willing to, because without them we wouldn’t be here today, looking forward to a future of peace and inclusion. 

I remembered what you said, about feeling sorry for the Slytherins, so I mentioned them specifically, told them how brave I thought they were for wearing their colours proudly and not letting the worst of our kind reflect poorly on them and that I owed my life to several Slytherins who I wish were as well known as the one bastard we got rid of. I actually said bastard in front of all those people and Professor McGonagall. Anyway, then I realised that singling Slytherins out was a terrible idea, so I said I was proud of the Hufflepuffs for how they are endlessly devoted to unity, that we need the wisdom of Ravenclaw and the loyalty of Gryffindor. I talked about loyalty instead of bravery so I could tell them that standing by the ones who need a friend is the best trait of all, because I really don’t want any of those kids feeling alone because of their house or their family or whatever. 

After my speech, Kingsley’s, McGonagall’s, about ten other people’s, there was a dinner where I was allowed to sit with my friends and avoid being mobbed and then there was a casual standing around thing where people were actively encouraged to mob me. And I couldn’t run away from it, most of the people want to tell me about the people they’ve lost and the shit they went through and I think telling me those things helps them. There’s a lot who want me to do things for them, sometimes those two categories overlapped, but if I’m going to avoid everyone literally every other day of the year, I could give them today. 

The reason I’m still in semi-public (I’m at the high table in the Great Hall), is because McGonagall convinced me to stay the night and watch the special Quidditch game tomorrow and Hermione’s talking to some kids at the Hufflepuff table so Ron and I are pretending this is very serious business so we can be left alone until she realises  we want to go to bed already .

Ron says “hi”, by the way. 

I don’t know what else to say. I feel like since my last letter I’ve either been planning for this or panicking about this. I hope you’re okay. Apparently it’s normal for anniversaries to bring up pain.

Exhaustedly,

Harry

  
  


_ 3rd May, 1999 _

_ The Ministry have corrected their oversight regarding my family. This is my one owl, Harry. We’re being held at the Ministry and our trial is in four hours, long enough to torture us and not nearly enough time to get any kind of help other than yours. I fucking hope this is a fast owl. Help us. Please.  _

_ Draco _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way I described Harry and Ginny breaking up is pinched from the opening scene of the brilliant Aussie TV show Please Like Me. Really funny, really emotionally affecting, I can’t recommend it enough.
> 
> The next chapter takes a break from the letter format for Draco's trial. It made me a bit nervous to write it, I think there's a reason most people seem to skip it and it's definitely because it's a mixture of boring Ministry process and _oh shit, the Malfoys really were Death Eaters._ I've given it a bash, anyway.


	3. 1999 - Draco's Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and his family are put on trial and Harry helps.

Harry was actually feeling good about having been persuaded to attend this Quidditch match. Ravenclaw had just scored the first goal when an owl swooped into the staff stand he was sitting in. Harry looked at Draco’s note with a small amount of embarrassment at distracting people from the game, but that evaporated as he saw what the note contained. He pushed it into Hermione’s hand, turned in his seat to tug at McGonagall’s robe and announced he had to go. He gripped Ron and Hermione’s hands but Hermione batted at him until he looked at her.

_ ‘You can’t Disapparate within Hogwarts grounds,’ _ she hissed. ‘Honestly, how many times!’

‘Fine!’ Harry said, standing up. He pushed his way to the bottom of the stand and by the time he got there he had a plan. He strode in the direction of Hooch’s broomshed, not even checking that Ron and Hermione were following until he had broken in and seized one of the newer brooms. 

‘You’re not flying to London, mate,’ Ron said. 

‘No,  _ we’re _ flying until I’m out of Hogwarts grounds, then we’re Disapparating,’ Harry said.

‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ Hermione said. 

She grabbed a broom, which Harry immediately corrected for a better one. Ron took one too, and then the three of them were flying at Hermione’s pace to the gates. Once there, they left the brooms to the side of the road and Harry (who had the best range for it) Apparated them all to London.

They exited the alleyway near the visitor’s entrance and squeezed into the phonebooth, which was bigger on the inside, but not  _ that _ much bigger. 

‘Remember when there were six of us?’ Ron laughed breathlessly. 

Hermione snorted softly and punched in the code.

‘Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger here to correct a legal misunderstanding,’ Hermione told the receiver. 

Three badges slid out of the coin dispenser, bearing their names and “Legal Dispute” on them. They each pinned them on as they descended into the Ministry.

‘Remember when we all fit under the Invisibility Cloak?’ Ron asked.

‘Are we doing reminiscing?’ Harry asked incredulously.

‘Just thought it might pass the time,’ Ron said.

The Ministry was just how it had looked last time Harry had been there, which was admittedly only a few months ago. Their shoes clacked noisily and conspicuously against the polished floors. Even before they reached the visitor’s desk people were starting to whisper and point. They managed to get through the sensor being waved over them without incident. As Harry handed his wand over, people started to approach. 

‘I don’t know how long it takes an owl to get to Hogwarts from the Ministry,’ Harry groaned helplessly. ‘I can’t do this now.’

‘Right,’ Ron said, straightening his back. ‘Right.’

The security witch handed Harry his wand back as Ron took a step away from the desk, meeting the first couple who were approaching, an older witch and wizard who had a distinct  _ accountant _ feel to them. Harry froze, initially unsure what he was seeing, and then realised he was being given an opportunity. He fled to the elevators as he heard Ron engage the fans in conversation.

‘Hello! It’s so nice to meet you, what are your names?’

Harry didn’t hear any more after that. He jabbed the number two in the elevator and was spirited away to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

The D.M.L.E. was expansive. Harry had been given several full tours, each with the intention of getting him to join the Aurors. He had wanted to after the Battle of Hogwarts and nearly signed up after his first tour, only a week after the battle. Hermione had convinced him to give it a month,  _ just one month, Harry,  _ and that was enough for Harry to realise that he was not okay, that he had six years of intense trauma hanging over him at least, and probably more like sixteen. His second tour, which he had attended to give Dean Thomas the benefit of his association for his own pursuit of becoming an Auror without N.E.W.T.s, had been in August and had solidified the layout for Harry, who had always had a head for navigation. The third, which he had been coerced into during his visit to the Ministry in November, meant that he was able to stride quickly to the Investigative Division and could probably get to the desk of any wizard he was given the name of.

‘Harry Potter here for Draco Malfoy,’ Harry told the wizard behind the desk, letting his impatience to find Draco and make sure he wasn’t being prosecuted right at that minute shine through his voice and lend it an authority it didn’t usually possess. 

The wizard jumped and nodded, scrambling for paperwork. 

‘The Malfoy trial is occurring in ten minutes in Courtroom Ten, sir,’ the wizard said.

‘Typical,’ Harry muttered. ‘Thank you.’

‘Of course, sir,’ the wizard breathed reverently. ‘My niece was at the Battle of—’ he began, but Harry was already half-running back to the elevator.

Fifteen minutes later and he walked through the heavy doors of Courtroom Ten without knocking, reminding himself forcibly of when Dumbledore had done the same for him. He knew what to say in that moment, as if he was back in the Pensieve and his lines were already written for him. 

‘Witness for the defence,’ he announced as he marched into the room. ‘Harry James Potter.’

‘Ah, Harry,’ Kingsley said in a clear tone of surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

_ Kingsley,  _ Harry thought with relief. Someone he knew, someone he could trust. And about a hundred people he couldn’t. He kept himself formal.

‘I believe I just said, Minister,’ Harry said, more mildly but still authoritative. ‘I’m here as a witness for the defence.’

Harry came to a stop in the centre of the room and was relieved to see the three blonde heads that confirmed he was in the right spot. That could have been very embarrassing, he hadn’t even considered otherwise. He supposed he was lucky that he’d never really been one for thinking things through. He felt a wave of intimidation at the sight of a full Wizengamot, but pushed through it. He’d faced worse.

‘For the Malfoys?’ Kingsley asked. He seemed surprised, but not opposed. ‘Very well, I move that the scribe recounts the charges so that Mr Potter is informed as to what he is defending against. If there are no objections?’ Kingsley paused for a moment, but there were not, though several on the benches looked less than happy about it. ‘Thank you, Miss Spinnet.’

Harry startled to recognise Alicia Spinnet, who gave him a small smile before doing as she was asked.

‘The charges against Lucius Malfoy are as follows: 

‘That he did knowingly and willingly follow He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as a member of his inner circle, known as Death Eaters, in violation of Section Three of the British Ministry of Magic’s Decree Against Terror Acts and Conspiratorial Violence, 1622. 

‘That he did with full knowledge of the criminality and the heinous nature of his acts, perform nine counts of the Unforgivable Curse _Avada Kedavra_ and twelve counts of the Unforgivable Curse _Crucio,_ in violation of Section One, Paragraph A of the British Ministry of Magic’s Compendium of Criminal Acts, 1499.

‘That during the period of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s reign of terror, from June 1995 until May 1998, he did commit two counts of felony murder, in violation of Section Two, Paragraph A of the British Ministry of Magic’s Compendium of Criminal Acts, 1499.

‘That he did ...’

The charges continued. Lucius’s were by far the longest, detailing not just his acts as violent Death Eater, but also his bribery of Ministry officials and possessing Dark artefacts, all the way down to illegally breeding Japanese Flying Ibex. Narcissa and Draco’s were significantly shorter, but still intimidating.

‘The defendants have pleaded not guilty of all charges on the grounds that they were under considerable duress by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,’ Alicia eventually finished.

‘Thank you, Miss Spinnet,’ Kingsley said. Harry saw a member of the Wizengamot forcibly shake herself alert again and appreciated just how boring that must have been to hear twice over. After the first few charges, he’d felt like saying,  _ ‘Yes, we get it, they did many bad things,’  _ and perhaps that witch would have been grateful for him doing so. ‘We have here gathered a total of fifty-two witnesses, fifty-three counting Mr Potter. Gamley, please escort Mr Potter to the anteroom while we hear the witnesses for the prosecution.’

Harry met Draco’s eye in mute apology for his fame not allowing him to circumnavigate the legal system entirely and reluctantly retreated from the courtroom. 

The room he was lead to was on the opposite side of the hallway to the courtroom and was labelled “Defence Witnesses”. Harry breathed a sigh of relief that he was not going to be waiting in a room of over fifty people with a grudge against the Malfoys. He took a seat at the long conference table and rested his hands on the pale wood. 

He had been much more comfortable with bursting in there and not thinking. He drummed his fingers on the table, then leaned back in his chair until the front legs lifted slightly off the ground, staring up at the ceiling. He landed back on the ground and checked his watch. It was just after 11:30.

What was he going to say when it was his turn? He thought about those charges, about the Malfoys pleading duress. He thought about what Draco had said, about this time being different to last time, about being stuck in it from the beginning.

Karkaroff had defected, he remembered. Had bartered his way to freedom and knew that that complete abandonment of loyalty wouldn’t be forgotten when Voldemort came back, so fled. He’d managed to survive for nearly a year on the run, with whatever magical talents were prerequisite to being the headmaster of a school famed for its Dark Arts education and with Voldemort and the Death Eaters still in hiding, still establishing. 

Had anyone else? Had Dumbledore ever provided refuge for anyone else who wanted to swap sides? Or was it just Snape, who wasn’t actually protected but was expected to spy, to withstand Voldemort’s paranoia and Legilimency and uphold his cover at all times. Would the Malfoys have been allowed protection without payment?

Harry flinched away from his own interior question. He had respected Dumbledore, had loved him. But that didn’t change the fact that Dumbledore had been ... transactional. He had called in his favours.

But even if Harry thought that Dumbledore might have helped the Malfoys without expectation (perhaps for Draco’s sake), or that there  _ was _ a place that was secure enough to hide them from Voldemort, he didn’t think Lucius would be so hopeful. He understood that there probably wasn’t a choice there. And Lucius was Voldemort’s right hand, the one whose wand and house he took, the one who spoke for him when he wasn’t there. Not exactly a person he’d let go of lightly.

_ But what had Lucius done to earn that honour? _

Could Harry really defend him? When he’d no doubt ruthlessly climbed the Death Eater ranks last time, when he would have had to maintain his standing through atrocities this time around? The crimes that he was being accused of were the ones that had left witnesses, when Lucius had been identifiable. And, while Harry had the feeling some of them were lying out of a need to help take Lucius down, he also thought there were probably things that hadn’t made it onto the list.

Harry chewed his thumbnail as he thought, his stomach tight with anxiety as he tried to organise his thoughts. 

Narcissa, well that was easy. He owed her a life debt, he wouldn’t be here without her and even her short list of charges ... well, apart from aiding and abetting Lucius, they all came down to the Battle of Hogwarts. When Harry had seen her (and Lucius for that matter) and she hadn’t even been aware of the people duelling around her, she was single-mindedly searching for Draco. He didn’t know whether she had hurt people as part of that goal, but he knew she wouldn’t have done so maliciously or with any thought other than getting rid of an obstacle. That was better, right? He hoped it was, because regardless, he owed her.

And Draco.

If sixteen-year-old Harry could see him now. He would have loved for someone to listen to him as he listed off every instance of Draco being up to something, real and imagined. He would have loved for it to have been taken seriously. 

Even though things had changed and Draco was his friend now, Harry still thought Draco had taken the mark voluntarily. 

But he’d been sixteen and it was expected of him and Harry thought that it was probably easier to think that you’d chosen the path you were on rather than deal with the fact that everything around you was a lie. And even if Draco had gone into it with a cocky swagger, the shine had worn off quickly.

If he thought about it too much, he started to get angry, barely stopping himself from shouting at the empty room that  _ he could have killed Ron! _ and,  _ sorry won’t give Katie those months back, not that he even  _ _ has _ _ said sorry! _ and then it was difficult to remember exactly why he was here, what he owed these people.

_ These people,  _ as if he really didn’t care. As if Draco wasn’t his friend now. As if he hadn’t thought countless times over the last year that he was getting to see who Draco could be without darkness hanging over him and how much he  _ liked _ seeing that. As if he could stand by and let Draco go to Azkaban, never to see romantic comedies or tease check-out boys or write with unrelenting drama to Harry while he was there.

Harry wished he had Hermione with him. She could tell him what was right and she could tell him exactly what to say in this bizarre world of courts that he didn’t really understand at all, for all the memories he’d dipped into.

Almost as if summoned by his thoughts, Hermione and Ron suddenly were opening the door and coming into the room. Hermione looked with great judgement at the several chairs that Harry had flung onto the floor and Harry could have hugged her for her well-timed condemnation.

‘Took you long enough,’ he said weakly.

‘Couldn’t shake them,’ Ron said. ‘I assumed they’d clear off when they realised you weren’t there anymore, but then it turned out they were pretty chuffed to talk to us. Anyway, here now. What’s the plan?’

Harry made a helpless gesture.

‘Well, I think it’s absurd,’ Hermione said, taking an upright seat. Ron joined her and Harry sat back down, too.  _ ‘No _ notice, which I can only assume is a strategy intended to deprive them of the very expensive law counsel that they are perfectly entitled to, regardless of my approval or the Ministry’s convenience. We could have  _ prepared _ for this. I read quite a bit about magical law in third year, but this is an entirely different area! Of course, some of the books I read contained  _ overviews, _ but honestly.’

‘We got the charges off the bloke upstairs,’ Ron said. ‘Who said that you had marched off before he could give you any information.’

‘Yeah, well. It had already started by the time I got here.’

‘I think our best approach is to focus on the present,’ Hermione said. She took a slip of parchment from her robes and smoothed it on the table. ‘From the looks of this I would say that most of the witnesses for the prosecution are from the Battle of Hogwarts, and if they’ve gathered fifty people who were there and who witnessed the Malfoys doing whatever it is that falls under the  _ wildly _ undescriptive umbrella of aggravated assault, I’ll eat my cauldron.’

Harry felt as if almost all of the tension released from his body at once. ‘You’ll help me then?’ he asked Hermione.

‘Well, he’s your friend, isn’t he?’ Hermione asked.

‘Which honestly means you should be able to just sorta go “don’t arrest my mate” and have them drop it,’ Ron said, propping his head up with an elbow so he could look at Hermione. Harry gave him a disbelieving look. ‘There might as well be some perks, is all I’m saying.’

‘Anyway,’ Hermione said. ‘Nothing we do will have any effect on the impression the Wizengamot gets from the witnesses. We can, however, call our own.’

‘Yeah, that’s why I’m here,’ Harry said, frowning.

‘No, that’s why you’re going to Apparate to Wiltshire and retrieve Malfoy’s Muggle girlfriend. And any other friends you think are suitable.’

Harry’s mouth fell open. 

‘We should have time, even if they  _ do _ dismiss an amount of the witnesses after it becomes quickly evident that they’re useless, there’s still a lot of them to get through. Even so, you’ll want to go now and explain yourself very quickly so that you can Apparate them back here in time.’

‘Okay,’ Harry agreed, still a bit stunned. ‘While I’m gone, could you deal with the moral quandary of whether I should speak up for Lucius?’

‘Eugh,’ Ron said. 

Harry thought that pretty much summed it up.

Twenty minutes later, having Apparated to Malfoy Manor, shoved his shrunken robes into his jean pocket and found his way to Marlborough, Harry realised that he had no idea where to find Draco’s friends. So, he took the advice he’d been given more times than could have remotely been reasonable and got himself to Sainsbury’s.

Harry didn’t know what he was expecting, but Dave was even taller than Ron’s 6’3, had shaggy brown hair that  _ must _ have been getting in his eyes and a considerable slouch, though that might have been to facilitate using the register at his height. Harry, who had not used his walk into the town to think of an excuse to lure Draco’s friends to London, approached with entirely unearned confidence.

‘Hi,’ Harry said.

‘You don’t have any groceries,’ Dave said. He had a somewhat slow way of speaking, not in the half-asleep style of speaking that Crabbe had had, but as if he didn’t feel any need to rush at what looked to be a mind-numbingly quiet supermarket.

‘No, I know, I’m actually here for you.’ Harry realised how weird that sounded and scrambled to introduce himself. ‘Er, I mean, I’m Harry Potter. Draco’s friend?’

‘I thought you weren’t friends.’

‘It’s a very recent development,’ Harry said. ‘When do you finish?’

Dave looked at Harry suspiciously. He twisted to look towards the only other manned register, then turned back. 

‘Five hours,’ he said. ‘My manager’s gonna get pissy with me if she thinks I’m socialising instead of working.’

Harry grabbed a chocolate bar at random and placed it on the conveyor belt. Dave gave it an assessing look before ringing it through and staring at Harry. That ... hadn’t really bought any time.

‘Listen, Draco’s in trouble,’ Harry said. ‘Can you help?’

‘How?’ Dave asked.

‘How’s he in trouble or how can you help?’

‘Both.’

‘Ah.’ Harry had not been prepared for either. ‘It’s complicated.’ He saw that Dave was starting to lose his patience, so he dropped his voice unnecessarily. ‘He’s been arrested.’

Dave’s eyebrows went up and he slouched even more so that he could be closer to Harry. 

‘What, does he need bail or something?’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘It’s complicated, I really want to explain, but I don’t have time to wait for your shift to end.’

‘Right,’ Dave said. He took his smock off and walked to his manager’s register. Harry glanced at the chocolate he hadn’t paid for and decided someone else could deal with that before following.

‘—is Harry, he’s come to tell me my mum’s been taken to hospital,’ Dave was saying.

‘Oh,’ the manager said. ‘Is she alright?’

‘No, otherwise she’d be at home,’ Dave said impatiently. ‘Look, I have to go.’

‘Yes, alright,’ the manager said. ‘I suppose we’ll manage without you,’ she said doubtfully. The store was incredibly empty, but her doubt seemed sincere.

Dave grabbed Harry’s sleeve and dragged him out, starting down the street, already talking and not giving Harry a chance to explain himself. 

‘Don’t understand how you’re the one who knows, Drake said you were in Devon,’ Dave said as he lead the way to somewhere or other. ‘His parents are here often enough that they should have been called. Hell, Sophie’s probably his emergency contact given how they’re never out of each other’s pockets.’ 

Dave came to a stop and looked at Harry. They were outside a police station. Yes, that made sense. But was not at all going to work. 

‘Actually, I need Sophie too,’ Harry said. ‘I just didn’t know where she works.’

‘Garden centre,’ Dave sighed, and he led the way away from the station. ‘Want to explain why you need Draco’s friends to deal with him being taken in by the coppers?’

‘I’d rather only explain once,’ Harry said, which he thought was an excellent excuse. Dave gave him a look like he didn’t agree. 

Sophie was significantly more open to being taken out of work. 

‘Sandra, I’m off!’ she called over her shoulder, not even checking to see if Sandra had heard. She didn’t seem particularly concerned by Harry’s not-detailed explanation, instead enthusiastic to go on an adventure.

‘So, back to the police station?’ Dave asked. ‘Or do we need to collect the woman from the curry shop as well.’

‘Somewhere private,’ Harry thought out loud. ‘Draco’s house!’ he remembered. ‘Can we go to Draco’s?’

‘I don’t have a key,’ Sophie said apologetically. 

‘I do,’ Harry lied. 

‘Oh, and he’s always saying you’re not friends!’ Sophie said. ‘Let’s go, then. Cheer up, Dave, would you rather be at work?’

‘Maybe, if Draco’s in trouble,’ Dave frowned. 

‘Aw,’ Sophie said, nudging Dave with an elbow and giving Harry a look to convey how cute she thought this was. Harry thought it was probably just decency, but smiled tightly at her anyway. 

Harry’s wand was strapped to his forearm in a holster Ron had given him for Christmas, one that allowed him to twist his arm in such a way and activate the charm to release it into his hand. He shielded it from view with his body as he tapped a silent Alohomora on the door and shoved it back up his sleeve awkwardly.

‘Oh god,’ Harry said as they walked in. There was an actual bearskin rug on the floor and it was snarling up at him. 

‘Her name is Druella,’ Sophie said, matter-of-fact. ‘Named for Draco’s grandmother.’

The rest of the cottage was less confrontational, and less chaotic than Harry had imagined. Certainly eclectic, with the mismatched green and red couches in the living room and the dining set in which not one of the chairs matched, but it all came together nicely. Harry was strongly reminded of Draco’s friend saying that Draco wore things that shouldn’t have worked, but did on him. Dave coughed pointedly, stopping Harry from examining the lacy lampshade closest to him. 

‘Er, right,’ he said. ‘This is going to sound mental and I really need you to hear me out.’

‘Intriguing!’ Sophie said delightedly. Dave looked significantly less enthused.

‘So, first thing ... Magic is real and Draco and I are wizards.’

‘Right,’ Dave said, ‘I’m going to use my day off at the pub now.’

‘Colloportus!’ Harry said, pointing his wand at the door. There was a slightly wet sound as it locked.

Dave tried the door, which didn’t open. He turned slowly, his face tight with restrained emotion. He gestured with a stiff arm for Harry to continue.

‘Er,’ Harry said, because he felt that wasn’t enough of a demonstration. ‘Wingardium Leviosa,’ he directed at a pot plant. It hovered obediently and then clunked back onto its plate when Harry released the spell. 

‘Ah,’ Sophie said politely. ‘Now that’s ...’

‘Yeah,’ Harry said apologetically. ‘And I really would like to give you time to process that, but that’s actually the least confronting part.’

‘Lovely,’ Dave said hoarsely.

‘There was a war,’ Harry said, putting his wand in his back pocket so that Dave and Sophie would stop looking at it like it was an enormous spider they couldn’t hope to do anything about, but should watch regardless. ‘It started ... well, debatable if you ask me, but it was definitely a thing in 1995 and finished a year ago. Draco ... he was on the wrong side.’

‘Is this about his gang?’ Sophie asked quietly.

‘Yes,’ Harry said, meeting her eyes. She looked concerned. ‘Draco’s side wanted to rule over Mu—non-magical people and they were willing to kill and hurt people to take control. Draco’s dad had been a higher up last time this gang were active, so he and his family were unavoidably involved this time.’

‘Draco hurt people?’ Dave asked, and Harry heard the real question there.

‘He didn’t kill anyone,’ Harry said quietly. ‘But he did hurt people, yeah.’

Those words had weight. Harry didn’t know how to continue and sensed that they could use a minute to absorb things anyway. Sophie was staring determinedly at the coffee table and Harry thought she might be trying not to cry. The coffee table looked like it had once been a heavy wooden ladder, the wood thick enough to accommodate the random detritus that gathers on coffee tables. 

‘So, he’s been arrested,’ Dave said, breaking the silence. ‘Mate, I don’t know how to feel about this. You seem pretty sure Draco’s done wrong, but he’s our friend. Why’d you call us out of work just to tell us that, what, we’re not going to see him again? Couldn’t it have waited?’

‘Dave,’ Sophie breathed in a barely-there admonishing tone.

‘Sophie,’ Dave retorted.

‘No, sorry, I want to get him unarrested,’ Harry said. There was probably a better word for it than that, but if he knew it he couldn’t think of it and he didn’t particularly care. ‘He was young and he didn’t really have a choice, but that’s, that’s all background, you don’t need to know the details. What I want from you is for you to come with me to the Ministry and say that Draco’s your friend, that he’s been ... good. Since then.’

‘Right,’ Sophie said. ‘Of course. I’ll tell them he’s sorry too, that’s probably important and I know he is, even though he hasn’t told me why.’ Her eyes were full of hopeful anxiety and a bit hard to meet. ‘What do we do?’ she asked.

Harry looked at Dave to make sure he was on board as well; he nodded in support but seemed to have run out of words.

‘Take my arm,’ Harry said. ‘I’m going to ... I’m going to teleport us to London.’

‘Magic sure does sound handy!’ Sophie said, a little bit wobbly.

She took Harry’s offered left hand. Dave placed his hand on Harry’s elbow. 

‘It’s going to be a bit rubbish, sorry,’ Harry said, knowing there was no way to prepare them. He turned on the spot.

Sophie bent at the waist and threw up when they appeared in the same alleyway Harry had Apparated himself, Ron and Hermione into a couple of hours ago. Harry stepped back to avoid the vomit and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. 

‘You alright?’ he asked both of them.

Dave was pale and had a couple of beads of sweat dripping down his cheek, but he seemed determined not to be sick. Sophie looked in better shape, like throwing up had helped, at least. Dave pressed his forehead into the cool brick of the alleyway, which Harry was a bit repulsed by, but he was soon functional as well. 

Harry got them down to the Ministry and hid behind Dave’s height as he tugged them quickly past the security witch, hoping that it was okay seeing as he’d already gone through it once and knowing that it probably wasn’t. He crossed his fingers for it to be overlooked on account of his Harry Potterness in the future. 

Back on level ten, in the witness room, Harry introduced Sophie and Dave to Ron and Hermione and pulled his robes back on. Ron passed an Ironing Charm helpfully over them as Hermione started to talk. 

‘Right, so we have a three-pronged approach,’ she said. ‘Our first prong is the fact that they really were coerced into all actions during this war and Lucius was acquitted of all charges from the previous war, so they had insufficient autonomy to prevent—’ 

‘’Mione, say it like Harry will say it,’ Ron interrupted. 

Hermione stopped, looked put out, and was quiet for a moment as she revised her words.

‘As the court has heard, the Malfoys are not contesting the charges laid against them. They are, however, pleading not guilty on the grounds that they would have been tortured and killed had they not complied with Voldemort’s demands. Some members of the Wizengamot may feel that this is not sufficient defence. After all, many of us were in danger of being tortured and murdered by Voldemort.’

Harry laughed weakly. ‘This is supposed to be convincing them  _ not _ to lock them up,’ he said.

_ ‘However,’ _ Hermione said, glaring Harry back into silence. ‘The Malfoys were actively kept prisoner and were in fact tortured when they disappointed him, including when it was unreasonable, as when I (by which I mean you, Harry) destroyed Lucius’s wand and Voldemort took it out on Lucius.

‘Additionally, despite their fraught circumstances, on multiple occasions the Malfoys took risks to save my (your) life, not to speak of any other kindnesses they offered that I’m unaware of. Draco denied recognising myself, Hermione and Ron when we were brought before him as prisoners. Narcissa told Voldemort I was dead at the Battle of Hogwarts and therefore saved my life, allowing me to defeat Voldemort.’

‘“Multiple” might be pushing it,’ Ron muttered. Hermione shot him a glare too.

‘And, our third point, is that since the war, the Malfoys have kept to themselves and made their own attempts to heal just like the rest of us. Including interacting with and befriending Muggles. Which is when we introduce Sophie and Dave and hope that they say very nice things about Draco. Because he  _ has _ changed and he  _ does _ want peace.’

‘Okay,’ Harry said. 

‘Draco was tortured?’ Sophie asked timidly.

Harry, Ron and Hermione shared an awkward look and started contextualising things in as simple terms as they could. Harry felt like they were going about it all wrong. But he remembered learning about magic and Voldemort at eleven and reassured himself by remembering that sometimes an ungraceful but honest approach was alright.

It seemed to take hours before they were summoned, even though it wasn’t even forty minutes, and then an eternity for Harry to get through his speech and then volunteer himself and the other four up for questioning. It didn’t go exactly as Hermione had planned, but Harry did at least remember the three prongs. Sophie recounted her friendship with Draco and what she’d seen of Draco’s grief and kindness passionately enough that Harry felt she could have sold the whole thing on her own. 

Once Dave had finished his more awkward defence of Draco and Harry had thought they were done, Lucius stood up and rendered Harry’s work almost completely pointless by bartering for their freedom with information. 

Harry watched, astonished, as Lucius provided dozens of names of Death Eaters, locations of safe houses, a spell that could undo one of the hexes that had been used on countless Muggles during the war. Two of the names he listed were members of the Wizengamot, which led to significant uproar, but Kingsley didn’t allow the commotion to continue for long. 

Kingsley was a fair interrogator, which gave the whole thing a bizarre taste for Harry. He’d never seen a fair trial in these courtrooms, one where the Wizengamot wasn’t allowed to cheer or goad the witnesses, or where the interrogator wasn’t obviously corrupt and mad with power. It was just a trial, a formal determining of what had happened and what needed to happen next.

A wizard called Pilliwickle had replaced Amelia Bones as head of D.M.L.E., and on hearing the defence he called a recess so that he could fully consider the case. Harry and the others stayed in the courtroom, half afraid they wouldn’t be allowed back in if they left. But eventually it was decided that with Lucius’s cooperation and the evidence of genuine remorse, all three of them would leave freely, albeit with restrictions on travelling and a severe reminder that they should endeavour to live a  _ very  _ honest life from now on.

Harry took several steps towards Draco, but the Malfoys were guided towards an anteroom and before he could catch up, Kingsley took his elbow and steered him away. 

‘Let them be for now, the Aurors will be interviewing them for some time to verify Lucius’s information,’ he said, deep voice quiet. ‘Now, will you come and have a drink with me in my office and explain what you were doing here today? We’ll send some Obliviators to get the Muggles safely home.’

‘Sure,’ Harry said, still looking at Draco as he left the room. His hair had grown to his chin and the front of it was tied back. He looked  _ so _ tired.

‘You two as well,’ Kingsley said, smiling at Ron and Hermione. Harry tore his eyes away and focused. He liked that Kingsley appreciated that Ron and Hermione were his equals. Not enough people did.

‘I wanted to talk to you about werewolves anyway,’ Hermione said seriously to Kingsley.

Harry cast one final look over his shoulder at the anteroom as he walked out with Kingsley. He could talk to Draco later. 


	4. 1999 - May - Sept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this chapter on you’re going to see a bit of political stuff, a bit of explaining how Death Eater ideology worked and criticising that. I’m basing it off my understanding of bigoted thinking in our world (I’ve done a fair bit of studying into these perspectives). One of my minor criticisms with the Harry Potter and related universe stories is that it’s constantly being said that Voldemort or Grindelwald is _so_ persuasive, but then when we actually see them speak, they’re . . . really not. They’re gross. 
> 
> And look, it’s a minor criticism because actually let’s not make wizard nazism seem like a path anyone could have taken, especially not in stories aimed at young people, but this is fanwork and I’m gonna go ahead and trust you guys to know that I take issues of equal rights _incredibly_ seriously and also to engage in this without thinking that bigotry is something to be emulated. I trust that even when I’m providing explanations of what Draco was thinking in the past, that the understanding of his motivations doesn’t extend to thinking them reasonable. 
> 
> My aim in writing this is to show the healing that can take place when someone can identify their worst thoughts and challenge them, then move on to a healthier way of thinking. (This is the main premise behind cognitive behavioural therapy.)
> 
> Also, I was going to write till the end of the year but oh my god these have started getting long. On the plus side, more chapters!

5th May, 1999

Draco,

I know you probably need time after that. I’m here if and when you want to talk. 

Sincerely,

Harry

_ 30th June, 1999 _

_Harry,_

_ Thank you for speaking for us. Sorry I didn’t write sooner, you were quite right in thinking I needed time. I’m very grateful we got off, obviously, but . . . _

_ My parents have tried to talk to me about it but I can’t with them. I have no idea why. I had hoped I could with Sophie, she spoke so well for me, but of course she doesn’t remember. The fact that I’ve withdrawn from her over the past two months has made things worse, but spending time with her when I’m so miserable would leave me guilty, especially as I can’t tell her why and she deserves to feel that I trust her. I do trust her, but short of marrying her I can’t tell her anything. Bullshit law, that one. As if the most important connection a wizard can make is marriage.  _

_ And if Sophie deserves to feel that I trust her, then you do even more so. I owe you my honesty. I owe you this intimacy after you’ve given me yours in your letters. And those are just heinous excuses because really I just want a friend, I’m so desperately lonely it’s pathetic. All my doing, though. I have an owl. _

_ The anniversary was awful. I don’t think I have to tell you of all people that. I spent it with my family in complete silence, because to speak would be to acknowledge the day. I cried about Vince; sadistic fool though he was, he still always had my back. Greg told me afterwards that they hadn’t meant it, about not having to listen to me anymore and resenting me all that time. I think they did, on some level. But it was nice of him to say. We haven’t spoken since. _

_ It was terrifying, wasn’t it? Even with everything else that had happened, it was still the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced. Knowing that anyone could kill me and they’d be right to, because I was Death Eater  _ _ and _ _ traitor. Merlin, those  _ _ spiders. _ __

_ And it wasn’t just remembering the battle, but remembering  _ _ that _ _ made me remember every other painful memory from the war, every stupid mistake I ever made, right down to insulting random Hufflepuffs because apparently I just wanted to feel miserable at that point. I think I remembered every spar you and I ever had and I regretted them all deeply. I’m sorry, Harry. I was a complete arse to you, which is bad enough, but clearly you had enough to be getting on with and I knowingly added to it. I  _ _ liked _ _ that I added to it. I’m so sorry. _

_ Anyway, it wasn’t a nice day. And to follow it up with a  _ _ long _ _ day during which I was sure we were all going to Azkaban and was reliving the nights when my father screamed or when he spoke almost calmly of wanting to kill himself so badly but not being brave enough to do it or when he said that it was worse than being imprisoned by You-Know-Who . . .  _ _ all without him saying that he was going to bargain us free, _ _ might I add. He probably wasn’t sure it would be enough.  _ _ I’m _ _ not sure it would have been, had it not been for you as well.  _

_ The Manor is excessively large for three people to live in. My grandparents lived here with us until they died when I was twelve (my grandfather of dragon pox and my grandmother seemingly of grief for him), but even the five of us was an incredibly small household historically speaking. My uncle’s family should have lived with us by all rights, but he didn’t want to be dragged into the war. Either one. He moved to Italy and only came to every third Christmas. _

_ So we all live in one wing and keep much of it covered in white sheets most of the time and that’s why my father was able to wake us up with his night terrors, because we were all fairly close. Sometimes I’d go to get a warm milk in the kitchen and my parents would already be there, doing exactly the same thing. Watching my father, who I had idolised so much, drinking warm milk of all things, with tears drying on his cheeks and his voice shaking so much, it made me furious. And I know I was seeking out the same comfort, but that didn’t even register. I didn’t know what I was angry at, except when it was you for having put him in Azkaban (or so I assigned the blame, anyway), so I put it all on him and my respect for him died. I’m so ashamed by how I acted. I let all my love disintegrate, my love for my mother as well because she was allowing him to be weak and then for everyone else (Pansy, Theo, Severus) just because I had no more love in me. It made it easy to take the Mark and easy to think I wanted to kill Dumbledore. The worst times were when my anger  _ _ wasn’t _ _ there, because then I was terrified and I missed my parents and I knew I was evil, irredeemably so and no one had made me that way but me. _

_ These last two months I’ve remembered that feeling very strongly. You see, this last year I’ve put it all out of my mind as much as humanly possible. And I’ve told you before that it’s not always effective, just as maintaining my anger in sixth year wasn’t always effective, so sometimes I just broke down and sometimes that even felt good, and then I’d move on and keep being cheerful, keep building this quaint little life I have here. But on the 2nd and 3rd I was confronted horrifically with exactly who I used to be, that thing I was trying to suppress, and it broke me. _

_ Merlin, the letters I started to write to you. Next time you’re feeling particularly disastrous—and unfortunately we both know that’s a when, not an if—I highly recommended writing down something shamefully dramatic, just completely overblown, as if you’re going to send it to me. I think it did help, actually.  _

_ I think I’m done with that now, actually. With the hiding in my room and letting my mother bring me meals and just not bothering to eat when she’s not and not talking to anyone and not even bothering to watch films. It’s so boring, Harry. Being depressed is boring.  _

_ I’m going to send this to you and then I’m going to invite my parents around for dinner and I’m going to clean the house a bit before they get here but I’ll just order curry for dinner because I know I won’t be able to sustain this energy for long enough to cook as well. And we’ll watch a film instead of talking because I know I can’t do that well either and I have nothing to say because all I’ve done lately is be depressed, but at least it will be reaching out.  _

_ Thank you again for speaking for us. Sorry I’ve been such an absolute slug in this letter, I promise I’ll be at least somewhat amusing next time. _

_ Gratefully, _

_ Draco _

  
6th July, 1999

Draco,

Wow, I’m really glad to hear from you. Even though you don’t sound like you’re doing very well, at least I know you’re . . . alive? Still want to talk to me? Getting there?

I wanted to talk to you after the trial, but maybe it was better that I didn’t. It sounds like you’d had a couple of awful days and I think even with us being friends now, it wouldn’t have been fair to expect you to put on a brave face. And it’d probably be awkward meeting for the first time after all this in front of your parents and random Ministry people.

I hope by the time you get this you’ve seen Sophie again. I liked her. She has an aura of friendliness and she clearly cares about you a lot. It sucks that she can’t know about what happened. She actually reacted pretty well to finding out magic is real. If you did marry her, I’d love to come to the wedding. 

I don’t really want to talk about the battle, or sixth year, or any of it. Is that avoidant? Is it looking after myself? I dunno, I just don’t want to talk about it, so I’m not going to. The advantage to this letter writing thing is that you can’t make me talk about things and even if you tried, I might be okay with it by the time your reply gets here or I could just avoid it again. Thank you for apologising though. 

It does mean a lot to me that you shared this with me. I wondered about your joining them at the time, kind of put it down to you being an arrogant prat and it making you feel important, but I thought about it a lot both when I hated you for it and when I pitied you for it. You probably don’t want my pity. Too bad, I assume you pity me sometimes too. I don’t think you’re evil. I don’t know if I believe in evil, like a person  being evil. I think people do evil things sometimes. Some people do evil things over and over again. There’s a difference.

You know, you could send me anything. Could be good for you to send your aborted letters and to know I don’t care when you’re being dramatic. I actually like it, to tell the truth. I fucked up the carpeting in a study a month ago and I ranted to the empty room how I thought you would and it made me feel better. I knew I was being ridiculous but I think I also needed to get it off my chest. It was like, “This is the most atrocious nonsense I have ever seen, and I once saw Voldemort attached to a teacher’s head. If I hadn’t just fucked up the carpet I would put a fainting couch in this room just so I had somewhere to expire.”

Was that too much? I feel kind of embarrassed having admitted that. Now you  have to send me your embarrassing letters.

Okay, changing the subject to something nicer. The flooring in my house is done, as is the painting. The kitchen is completely stocked and my grumpy, old house elf even likes it. I’m slowly working my way through furnishing the rest of the place. It’d go quicker if I went to furniture stores and bulk-bought, but I liked your house and thought I’d give the markets a go. Oh, I was in your house. Only briefly, it was just to get Sophie and Dave off the street so I could explain the situation and Apparate them to the Ministry. I hope that’s okay. I mean, too late now if it wasn’t.

And, I don’t know if this is awkward or not, but I’m an Auror now. Well, trainee. Well, not really a trainee, more like a Junior Auror, whose main role at the moment is to do a shitload of reading. I do maybe one outing a week and then spend the rest of my time learning all the procedure and legal stuff around it. I know this isn’t how most traineeships work, but they want me out in the field. I’m not complaining, I know the studying is important but I think it’d be something like torture if it wasn’t for getting out and feeling like I’m doing something important. I don’t know if you want me to talk about that, so I’m going to just stop until I hear from you.

That’s been keeping me pretty busy. Arthur has one channel working on the TV but has no idea why it’s working and not the others. As soon as I get a couple of bedrooms fitted out, Ron, Hermione and I are going to move into my house together. Me so I can be closer to the Ministry and them because they are shamelessly keeping me company. We feel a bit bad about leaving Molly, Arthur and George alone in a house that was so full, but we’ll be back all the time and things seem smoother now, anyway. 

I’m going to do the question thing you did once, because I feel like I’m underperforming in this letter. 

What’s your favourite colour? You mentioned blue when you owled me about paint, is that it? Mine’s red and it’s definitely because of Gryffindor, I can’t even pretend otherwise. It makes me feel warm.

If you  could choose, what would you choose as an Animagus form? My dad was an Animagus and he was a stag, which would be amazing, I don’t know if I could top that. I could gallop so fast and antlers are really cool. You could put Christmas lights on me. But I don’t know, I like the idea of bears too. They’re fast too, but cuddly. I mean, I would be if I were a bear, I wouldn’t expect an actual bear to be cuddly. 

What’s your favourite spell? Mine would be the Patronus Charm if that wasn’t so wrapped up in Dementors. I do love using it for communication. But because it  is associated with Dementors, I’m going to say whatever it is Hermione uses to conjure fire in a jar. It’s so comforting.

Reading over all that, I sound almost like I seek out warm, cuddly, comforting things. Almost like I’m really fucking traumatised. I’m pretty sure that most people like nice things though, so let’s not read into it too much.

I really hope you’re okay. I’ve been thinking about you.

Concernedly,

Harry

  
_ 28th July, 1999 _

_Harry,_

_ Still not used to that. I’ve been trying to call you Harry to Sophie and she’s been correcting me when I slip back into calling you Potter. When I said your name in front of my mother, she asked if they should expect to find you having tea with me some time soon and whether she should invite you to the Manor. This is what I deal with daily, please spare as much pity for me as you can manage.  _

_ I’m glad we didn’t speak after the trial. I get snippy when I’m tired or stressed and having an argument with you would have been just about the worst way possible to end that dreadful day.  _

_ I can’t believe you trespassed on my home on your way to saving me from life imprisonment. Of course I don’t mind. Though I’m not inviting you to tea, so that we’re clear on that front. I quite like our friendship as it is. You’ll have to argue convincingly if you want to sit awkwardly on my settee.  _

_ I’m glad to hear about your house. I found decorating mine to be extremely therapeutic and it’s good that you have this opportunity too, seeing as you so frequently disregard my attempts to get you into the institution of mental health that is Sainsbury’s. I wish Dave remembered you so that I could ask him for his impressions. He’s very blunt, I adore him.  _

_ I’m surprised to hear about your becoming an Auror. Not about their letting you run riot around the place pointing your wand at things with a Ministry badge on, of course that’s allowed for you. But at your  _ _ wanting _ _ to. You haven’t sounded particularly interested in our past letters. What’s changed? And what are Granger and Weasley doing with their time while you’re doing that?  _

_ I do want to hear about your life, Auroring inclusive, so please don’t edit on my behalf. I wasn’t  _ _ actually _ _ thrown in a cell.  _

_ My favourite colour  _ _ is _ _ blue. I look remarkably good in it, though not quite as good as I do in green or pink (I can pull off nearly anything except for white). I like the colour of the sky on a sunny winter’s day. When the blue feels far away, paler than summer, but you know that you can step outside and  _ _ breathe. _

_ Your father’s name wasn’t on the registered Animagi list when we studied them in school, which leads me to believe you are telling the truth, because apparently you came by your trouble-making naturally. My father was in sixth year when your father arrived at Hogwarts and as Prefect, he apparently encountered him often enough. Did you know that my father gave yours detention for leaping out of the Astronomy tower? He was  _ _ holding _ _ his broom, intending on getting it underneath himself before he died, presumably, but my father caught him with a charm before he could test his reflexes. My response to this story was, “I can’t believe we didn’t think of that.” _

_ If I could choose a form, it would be snow leopard. I don’t even feel the need to explain myself, they’re simply too wonderful for there to be any confusion about why I’d pick them.  _

_ My favourite spell is Astrum Illumino Amploctor, and like your example, I can’t actually perform it. But my mother used to conjure stars for us and told me the stories that went along with their constellations, as well as the family members who were named for them and what they did. When I try, I get a few pinpricks as if I’m looking at the night sky from London, but hers are right there in the room, colourful lights that burn gently enough that I would fall asleep in the middle of her lessons. _

_ It’s your birthday shortly, so I’ve enclosed a present. Now, you’re not to be feeling any kind of way that you didn’t get me anything for mine, if you recall you were respecting my boundaries and I appreciate that. Besides, this is basically nothing. _

_ It’s a Muggle scented candle. I bought one for myself too, and it smells even better when it’s lit. It is supposed to bring you peace and tranquillity, so I apologise for only sending one, but had I appropriately equipped you it would have drained my substantial fortune. I have been instructed that it is best used while in the bath, but I use it when I wake in the middle of the night and need to be out of bed. I drape myself very fetchingly across my ottoman and watch the flame flicker. _

_ Now, at your insistence I have also included my dramatic ramblings. You have brought them on yourself. No need to respond, unless it’s to tell me to submit them to some poetry prize. _

_ Thespianly (thespianishly?), _

_ Draco _

_ Harry, _

_ Next time you be the Slytherin and I’ll be the Gryffindor, except it won’t work because I’m sarcastic and manipulative and evil and you’re good and honest and so fucking straight-forward, you always charge right in the main gates without  _ _ considering _ _ anything else and it would get you eaten up by my evil Slytherin friends and I would be cast out by your good Gryffindor friends but maybe our skeletons could hang out sometime.  _

_ Harry, _

_ I had no friends until I was nine, I just couldn’t figure out how it was done. Children were so loud and fast and I just wanted to do painting or play pretend with my toys and I didn’t want to share at first, but I noticed quite quickly that you needed to if you were to make friends, so I gave my paints to Theo to have a go and he poured them on my head and I was so  _ _ confused _ _ and hurt but I don’t think I cried because I never really cried when I was little and my aunt (not the ones you know) used to tell Mum it wasn’t normal, that children are supposed to cry and to talk when they’re not allowed and to do things without thinking about them but I couldn’t be like that because those weren’t being a good boy things and all I wanted was for Mum and Dad to think I was a good boy and I  _ _ was _ _ , even though that must seem impossible to you and I was like that until I was nine and it finally clicked that instead of doing good boy things I should be like Dad, because he had friends and even better he had followers, and I wasn’t very confident but I knew that it was easy to pretend to be things you’re not, like pretending to be good when your aunt says that you’re not normal and it’s so fucking cruel to say that being bad or inconsiderate is a thing to aspire to because how can you try to be like that, you just can’t, but I could of course, I just didn’t dare to until I was nine, which is when I laid slumped across the settee like I was going to drip right off it and caught Pansy’s hair as she went past and when she screamed I told her that she screamed like a hawk which was pretty embarrassing for her but also a little bit cool and she looked at me like she’d never noticed I was in the room which maybe she hadn’t and then I looked at her for a bit and walked off before she could talk to me or leave me again and then I sat down next to Theo and asked him about what magic he’d done and then I showed him how I could change the colours of my clothes and I left him before he was finished with me too and I gave Greg and Vince presents because I knew that was the level they were on and it worked, it worked so well, on everyone but Blaise who was real confident and knew I was just faking and by the time we went to Hogwarts I could make any of them do anything and I couldn’t remember who I was anymore but it was probably my father and it was so surprising when it didn’t work on everyone at Hogwarts, but it was too late by then, I was who I am and I lost who I was and I was pretty sure I was pretending but I didn’t know who I was underneath the pretending anymore. _

_ Harry, _

_ There are vipers in my mind and they are hissing, writhing, biting, and their venom is making my muscles seize and my bones weak and please make them stop, I just want you to save me, that’s your thing you noble bastard, please save me. _

  
12th August, 1999

Draco,

You should submit your dramatic letters to poetry competitions. Thanks for trusting me.

Also thank you for the candle. It smells nice, even though I don’t know about the peace and tranquillity claim. I tried taking it to the bath but the fact that I haven’t done up the bathroom made me mad enough to start working on it right then. I mean, obviously I knew I hadn’t done it up, but I hadn’t really sat in it for extended periods so it hadn’t bothered me until then. I’ll give it another go in a bit. I sleep fine, so I can’t use it like you do. I mean, except for the dreams, but they don’t wake me up. Wish they would sometimes.

Anyway, I’ve got you a present for your birthday, even though I’m late. It’s not by that much, sort of. It’s a holster for your wand; I have one too and it’s brilliant. You just turn your wrist and a charm activates that pushes your wand right into your hand. So much better than pockets, especially with all the “you’re going to curse your bollocks off” talk that goes around. And you have to be in the same boat as me in wearing Muggle clothes a lot now.

I like the way our friendship goes too. I like that I can take my time before saying things and that I look forward to getting the mail. I’ve started writing to Hagrid too, for Hogwarts gossip (even though it’s holidays right now there’s surprisingly a lot) and because it’s nice, having friends and talking to them like this where I can control my words. I still get angry, way too often but less than I was. And sometimes I go to a supply closet with a strong Silencing Charm and scream it out, but more often I just hold it in and it comes out with Ron and Hermione, who just really don’t deserve it. Sometimes they fight back and I don’t know if that’s better or not. We all have our coping mechanisms though. I probably shouldn’t tell you theirs, but they’re better than shouting in my books. Maybe not their books though, it’s harder to deal with when it’s your own bullshit. 

So, the Auror thing. I wasn’t sure about it when I first started, insisted on keeping it secret for the first month (which didn’t even last a week, reporters are better at stake outs than we are), but it’s good. Like, genuinely. It tires me out, it makes me feel like I’m using my brain. I’m good at it and it’s been a really long time since I felt like I was good at something other than throwing the Quaffle around with Ron at The Burrow, which I’m not actually anywhere near as good at as Seeking and there’s not exactly stellar opportunities for showing off on a broom when you’re doing that. Ginny’s playing professionally, did you know? Sometimes I’m jealous, but the reporters are bad enough without them mobbing practice three times a week and games. And her exercise routine is brutal, I don’t think I care enough to do that.

So yeah, I like being an Auror. I like the puzzle aspect to it, I like learning new spells, I like that the witch they’ve partnered me with is this old, grumpy bastard, a woman who could probably scare Moody into bringing her cups of tea. She couldn’t give a shit who I am and praise from her is “I suppose you might not get us killed if you do that again in the field”. 

We were all a bit worried that I’d come down with PTSD or something, but I don’t think I’m that kind of person. I think I broke that part that’s supposed to have normal reactions to traumatising things before I even got to Hogwarts. It doesn’t even make me more angry.

Ron’s helping George at the shop, has been since October. The move to London was actually really good for him. George has started inventing again, which is amazing news to everyone except for Ron, who is usually the guinea pig. Ron’s starting to have ideas too and apparently only looked like a sensible person when surrounded by the twins, Ginny and me. He’s always been a great strategist and now he’s using it to inflict pranks on people.

Hermione is studying, anticipating returning to Hogwarts this year and determined to get the most N.E.W.T.s she can, beside which still experimenting with Arthur, researching magical law so that she can help me with my studies and healing so that she can mitigate some of the disasters that Ron and George run into. And I found her reading Ulysses by James Joyce “for fun” the other day, which has single sentences that go on for pages and pages and makes her tell me off if I distract her by greeting her or whatever. 

I liked reading the story your dad had about my dad. If he tells you any more, please pass them on. I know my dad and Mum must have led lives that touched people and I do have a photo album full of pictures of them, but between the wars and my not knowing wizarding people, I haven’t met many people who knew them well enough to tell me stories. Sirius told me the most, the times when he and Remus got excited reliving those times were . . . I don’t know how to describe it. Good, in a painful way. They work as Patronus fodder, whatever that means. For a while, the vague impression of having been loved by my parents was the only thing that made the spell work. 

Your mum’s spell sounds beautiful. I like spells that are just joyful, you know? Practical magic is . . . practical, obviously. But nothing compares to magic that just makes life a bit nicer. 

Okay, I’m tired. Bugger off.

Tiredly (and uncreatively),

Harry

  
_ 1st September, 1999 _

_Harry,_

_ It’s Hogwarts day and it still feels strange not to be on that train. I’m not going back, as is clear from that opener. I may do an apprenticeship at some point, or I may just manage the Malfoy estate. Maybe I’ll be a trophy husband or a rock star. Or both. Whatever I do, I suppose it won’t involve N.E.W.T.s.  _

_ Thank you for the wand holster. It’s significantly more useful and nice than a candle, so I will get my revenge come Christmas. It’s going to be so fucking thoughtful, Potter. _

_ We  _ _ do _ _ all have our coping mechanisms, don’t we? I think the way I fixate on the positive is one of mine. It’s a lifelong habit. I told my mother about owling you the overdramatic recounting of my inability to make friends as a child and she told me she had no idea I had had trouble with it. I do remember telling her stories about what the other children would get up to, genuinely attempting to sound like I wasn’t such a loser and apparently succeeding. She told me she saw how well I got along with adults, it didn’t occur to her that I might struggle with my peers. _

_ And of course there’s the impulsivity, the way I buy things I don’t need. I even think rewatching movies is something of a coping mechanism. It brings me unspeakable comfort to know what is coming. I didn’t think about this until my boring depressive spell, during which and immediately following I felt very anxious about watching something new. And you know how I love watching movies, so it was an unusual thing to feel and something I was somehow scared to look at too closely. _

_ I’m glad you’re enjoying being an Auror. I’m sure you’ll be running the place in no time and it’ll only be slightly because you’re Harry Potter. The rest will be because you’re you and you’re infuriatingly compelling. A natural leader, passionate and even more importantly, compassionate. Good grief, I just complimented you. I shan’t be doing that again, so enjoy this one example of it.  _

_ In a fit of competitiveness, I have now read Ulysses. It was fucking fantastic, but it isn’t half difficult to follow. I’m now reading The Odyssey, after which I suppose I’ll reread Ulysses, because I just know I was missing things. Isn’t it so infuriating that every time you read a book, you find yourself with four more books that you should also read? There are not enough hours in the day. Though, I am without occupation. Maybe I’ll be someone who is quite well read and so is invited to dinner parties for the pleasure of hearing me say clever things. _

_ It wouldn’t be a letter from me if I didn’t update you on the sordid life of my Muggle compatriots and I have a particularly juicy update for you today. Sophie and Chelsea are dating. Sophie has told me that she thinks she was probably attracted to me because I’m “feminine”, which I very much wanted to be affronted about, but she was braiding my hair into pigtails at the time so I didn’t really have a leg to stand on. My hair is  _ _ almost _ _ long enough for one braid, which I believe will look very nice, but at the moment it’s just making  _ _ me _ _ look like a lesbian. _

_ Anyway, Chelsea is nice enough, but I don’t know if she’s quite deserving of Sophie. I certainly wasn’t, quite apart from her apparently being monstrously gay. She truly is an angel. I attempted to give Chelsea the hard word, but it wasn’t very effective as she told me she’d archaeology me if I didn’t shut up and I still have no idea what that means. I’ve written it on my hand so I don’t forget next time I go to the library.  _

_ In other news, I got to levitate my mother onto the roof of the Manor so she could deal with a place where it had entirely collapsed in. The structural repairs are coming along and would be further advanced if it wasn’t for my father’s perfectionism. Heritage means a lot to him. I think he’s focusing on the building so that he doesn’t have to confront the fact that the name is just as damaged. _

_ On that depressing note, I’ll sign off.  _

_ Abysmally, _

_ Draco _

  
18th September, 1999

Draco,

I like your career options. Personally I think you’re best suited to professional dinner guest, which definitely isn’t a thing but which you could totally pull off. I was led to believe that dinner parties would be more of a thing than they are. Sometimes it feels like I’m a real adult, you know, I have my own house that I renovated and a job. I do crosswords. But sometimes I think I’m play-acting it. That real adults have some secret I don’t and among those secrets is the whole dinner party thing. I guess I’m technically still a teenager, so I’m putting that freak out off for another day. I definitely thought the older Weasleys had it together when they were my age. My parents got  married at my age. I can’t imagine that.

Thank you for the compliments, I’ll treasure them forever. I’ll tell my children one day “Draco Malfoy once said that I was ‘infuriatingly compelling’” and they’ll all make very impressed noises. Maybe I’ll tell Teddy, he’s adorably great at conversations now. I mean, no, he really isn’t, but he knows some words and he’s sure enthusiastic about it. He can say my name and takes great advantage of that to demand my attention. He does this thing where he kind of makes noises in the middle of other words as if he would be speaking in full sentences if he could only fill in the blanks, like “Harry, woo-ooo-oo, cat now”. I love it.

I took him to one of Ginny’s Quidditch practice matches last week. He doesn’t really have the attention span for it yet, but he definitely was impressed with what he did watch. He wanted to go on his broom straight after and threw a tantrum when Andromeda told him it’d have to wait until after his nap. He calmed down when I said I’d read one of Hermione’s books to him to help him get to sleep. She’s written him three books, which George illustrated for her. They rhyme, they’re fantastic.

Auroring is going well. I’m even getting used to the press, who are getting used to me as well. Going into the Ministry in the same uniform every day actually makes for shit pictures, they all look the same, so they’ve backed off a bit. And Evelyn, my partner, is scary enough that they haven’t tried to get in our way since the first time. Hermione said they were probably trying to get me angry or frustrated with them getting in the way so that they could get a picture of me being angry or frustrated, which makes an annoying amount of sense. 

We had a mission last week where we were tailing some Hippocampus traffickers, it left me with really weird feelings. On the one hand, I’m glad that we caught them and that we got the Hippocampi back to the ocean, but seeing them in these tiny magic-proof tanks made me furious. They’re gorgeous animals and so intelligent, but these assholes just wanted to keep them alive long enough for the buyers to have fresh body parts for their potions. And Evelyn told me that because most Hippocampi parts have substitutes, most wizards don’t go to the trouble of hunting them. And because wizarding laws are bullshit, the traffickers are going to get two years max and probably will just have to pay a fine.

I told Hermione about your reading and she recommends William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying and every single Katherine Mansfield short story, but especially Bliss. They’re from the same era of writing and I’ve just endured  the longest letter on literary movements and the way modernism really goes all the way back to the Enlightenment. She showed me visual arts that were doing the same thing in questioning how “real” realism is. It was actually pretty interesting but I have no context for it. I don’t really read that much and I definitely don’t think about genre or “authorial intention”. I liked the art she showed me, though. I might put some confusing abstract shit on my walls. I feel like I could look at cubism for hours.

She’s at Hogwarts now, which is weird. She’s allowed to go into Hogsmeade whenever because she’s an adult, so she and Ron have been spending every weekend together (during which she apparently mostly studies, but he knew what he was getting into there) and I’m going to go up for the Quidditch matches once they start up and catch up with her then. I know, I probably should be able to hang out with my best friend without the safety of sport to facilitate conversation. But I also don’t want to butt in on their alone time, so that just seemed like the most graceful way to do it. I’m going next weekend and I’ll spend a couple hours in Hogsmeade with them, but I’ll be glad for the distraction of the game. She really doesn't need me every weekend or even most, we’re owling anyway.

Archaeology is the study of old things. I don’t know exactly what they do, but I’m pretty sure they dig up places that have been buried because of time passing and then they analyse vases or whatever they find. Chelsea can’t do archaeology to you. And you’re a wizard, you could handle it if it were a real thing she could do, which it isn’t. 

I think it’s nice that Sophie has a girlfriend. It’s funny that we’ve both had break ups that were at least a little bit because of gayness. If she’s chosen Chelsea, then she’s probably good enough. And I think you were probably good enough for her too, it sounds like you had some really nice times together. She  is a person, excellent though she may be. Don’t put her on so high a pedestal that she has to sit all alone up there. 

The Manor repairs are taking a while, are you sure you can’t get help? Is it safe for your parents to live there? 

Ron says “hi”, but also that he’ll burn my letter if I don’t stop scribbling and clear the table for dinner. I don’t think he would, but I still better go.

Abruptly,

Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Puts stuff about books in here because I don't know what other people talk about.*


	5. 1999 - Oct - Dec

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal/intrusive thoughts very briefly discussed in Draco's second letter in the paragraph starting "I wish there was a potion for this shit". I think I've handled it mildly, but look after yourself if you don't want to see that. <3

_ 5th October, 1999 _

_Harry,_

_ I’m definitely not an adult and I’m older than you, so I’m afraid you aren’t yet either. Doing crosswords doesn’t count. Did you know that you can buy entire booklets that have crosswords in them instead of relying on the papers? And other puzzles too, in case you don’t have adequate knowledge of Muggle pop culture to do crosswords. Actually, I’ve found that they’re good for kickstarting my research. There’s also a magazine that has an excellent puzzle section that you can submit for chances to win prizes (I have won a contraption that allows you to cook eggs in the microwave and dear heavens and stars, I wish they had sent me the plague instead) and the stories it has are completely ludicrous, though  _ _ apparently _ _ true. Here’s the title of one: Having A Baby Made My Skin Fall Off. Sophie advises me that this is not a typical side effect of Muggle pregnancy. _

_ I tentatively shared your stories about Teddy with my mother. I’m not sure how she felt about them, she’s not terribly outward when it comes to displaying emotions. I wanted to gauge how she might feel about reconnecting with Aunt Andromeda, but I can make no sense of it. I hope she’ll think about it. Our family isn’t looking especially vast at the moment and she can no longer have compunctions about her having married Edward, seeing as she was fine with my dating Sophie and as the only male heir of the Malfoy family, marrying a Muggle would have had significantly greater consequences, on top of which Edward actually was a wizard.  _

_ I wonder if I should be thinking about reintegrating somewhat into wizarding society, for the advantage of finding a pure-blood witch to marry. I know that must seem particularly gauche to you, considering past affiliations that I assure you we  _ _ do _ _ want to distance ourselves from. But should I be throwing away our place on the Sacred Twenty-Eight? Does that matter? I honestly don’t know, but I’m conscious of all the other traditions that are being swept away. It wouldn’t cost me anything to spend some time with some witches on the off chance I might fall in love and have that be that. Choose without choosing. It would be convenient to fall for the “right” person, you know? I tend to like people easily, it could happen. Except for the fact that you’re the only magical person I talk to who I’m not related to. Hey, want to get married? You actually should be on the Sacred Twenty-Eight, you could kick up a fuss about that. Except don’t, it really doesn’t mean anything, not even in my old circles. The ones who took it seriously . . . well, they’re the ones who have given me my woefully thin blood and let’s leave it at that. _

_ Your Auror partner sounds like she can handle you, which is only a plus when it comes to you. And I’m pleased on your behalf that the reporter thing is settling down. The fact that you were incapable of leaving the house was a bit concerning, really. But fuck that mission. Hippocampus hair can be harvested without killing the creatures and that’s the only element that’s worth a damn, their teeth and blubber aren’t worth the effort involved in hunting them. They have alliances with merpeople, for fuck’s sake! And it’s very cruel. I’ve always thought they were beautiful creatures, the fact that it’s wasteful is just aggravating me because there’s no fucking need. Use ashwinder eggs like the rest of us, shitty, imprisoned potioneers.  _

_ I’ve read Bliss on Granger’s recommendation and it is one of the finest stories I’ve ever read. Bertha’s intensity of emotions drew me in from the very first line, her desperation to connect with her baby, her husband, the woman she had romantic feelings for . . . it was just beautiful and genuinely heartbreaking. And then I read As I Lay Dying because I loved Bliss so much, which was also good but not  _ _ as _ _ good. I will say, I have never hated a character in anything as much as I hate Anse. So, really, it must be good, if it’s made me feel something so strongly. Tell her to recommend something trashy next time, my soul cannot cope with such enrichment.  _

_ I knew Chelsea was rotten. I’m starting to like her more and more and it’s entirely to do with the fact that she does such things as threaten me with archeology and tell me when she’s sick of me upfront. That’s an underrated trait, I like  _ _ knowing _ _ that she wants to be around me, because she’s certainly not afraid of telling me when she doesn’t want it. _

_ No, we cannot get help with regards to the Manor. I have attempted to suggest this on multiple occasions and I’ve had to give it up. The truth is, my parents have trust issues. They also have perfectionism issues. If they do it themselves, they know it’s being done properly. They would end up breathing down any contractor’s neck, supervising them so closely and double-checking the spellwork and so honestly it’s easier for them to just do it themselves.  _

_ Tell Weasley I say “hi” back, seeing as I’m apparently communicating to Granger by proxy anyway. Might as well complete the interactions. _

_ What have I even been doing? It’s a mystery. Time continues it’s relentless assault on my person, leaving me wondering just where my youth went. OH WAIT.  _

_ In actuality, I’ve been doing much of the same. Reading, socialising, helping at the Manor. The librarian helped me create an e-mail account, which I have exclusively used for the purposes of acquiring “junk mail”. Sophie is my only contact and I can just  _ _ walk _ _ to see her. I saw a movie called The Matrix, which leads me to believe this computer thing may be our final salvation or the doom of the species, impossible to tell which. And (I can’t believe I didn’t put this in the very first sentence of this letter) 10 Things I Hate About You. It’s impossible to tell whether it’s my favourite movie or not, there’s so many good ones, but it’s definitely in the running. The  _ _ romance. _

_ Do tell me when they put magic-compatible televisions on the market, I’ve started spending the odd night at the Manor and I seem to have grown addicted to the thing. I’ve been spending more time there so I can have magic around me freely. And it’s finally in a state where it’s pleasant to be there, at least in the east wing.  _

_ Please tell me you’re paying attention to my movie recommendations. I think it’s almost as essential to the health of your heart and mind that you watch Heath Ledger parade around to prove his love as it is for you to frequent certain Muggle shopping establishments. Be a good boy and take my advice, on this and all subjects.  _

_ Wisely, _

_ Draco _

  
30th October, 1999

Draco,

I don’t know how to react to your whole thing about marrying strategically. Or conveniently? I think I’m a bit pissed off with you, but the rest of the letter was all . . . I like you and the way you say things, so it’s confusing to also be angry at you and then have you go on as if you haven’t said anything fucked up. Don’t perpetuate this shit! Especially when blood has nothing to do with whether someone can keep up with your traditions or whatever it is you’re worried about. Hermione would be fucking delighted to learn about shit like that and Ron’s as pureblood as any of you and couldn’t be forced to care! 

Sometimes it fucking sucks having to be reasonable. And right now I want to send you a Howler so that I can have the satisfaction of yelling at you. I’m not saying go and find yourself a Muggle, I  know that you’ll be happier if your parents can be comfortable around your partner, but  fuck , Draco. 

Okay, I’ve gone for a run. Several runs. Every time I reread that to go about replying, it’s not as hard to read and it  is harder to be mad at you. I don’t want to be mad at you. I don’t want to fuck this up. I look forward to getting your letters, I like carrying them around until I reply to them. Sometimes I think I’m more honest with you than with anyone else. 

I guess I respect that even when you said all that you were still putting love first. And it’s not like I think you were  trying to be an asshole. When I think about it, it’s kind of amazing that you haven’t said anything monumentally stupid before now. Not that I’m letting you off the hook. Except I am. Just, be better. 

Anyway.

Regardless of how convenient you think it would be, you’ll have to do a lot better than that to get a ring on my finger. And seriously don’t talk about the advantages of my name and station as you’re proposing, Mr Darcy. If you haven’t read/seen Pride and Prejudice, get on it. I watched it because  ~~I’m gay~~. it’s good. Please pretend you can’t read through that strike, I feel so fucking awkward. 

Topically, Hermione recommends Bridget Jones’s Diary as a trashy read. It took inspiration from Pride and Prejudice, that’s why it’s topical. I’m seriously considering starting this letter again, but we don’t do that even when we write stupid things. Fucking hell, though. 

I decided to follow your lead and casually mention you in front of Andromeda, whose reaction I honestly couldn’t tell either. I’ll give it another go when it doesn’t feel incredibly fucking obvious what I’m doing. Maybe I’ll show Teddy that star spell, even though it really doesn’t work that well for me. Maybe I’ll do it while Hermione’s here for Christmas and watching so that she can immediately master it and make us look bad.

Yeah, I pay attention to your recommendations. I mean, we have to test the stuff out somehow and I don’t know, I want to have the full context of your letters. The Matrix was cool, Ron and I went to see it last week. I’ll get to 10 Things I Hate About You. It’s not that I don’t take your investment in my mental health seriously, it’s that your suggestions to improve it are insane and so are you. Another reason I won’t marry you.

And I have a prototype TV in my house, are you jealous? Arthur’s expecting them to go on the market by Christmas, so it won’t be long.

So, Halloween tomorrow. I’m glad it’s falling on the weekend. You know, I never cared that Halloween was the anniversary of my parents’ death when I was at school. I mean, I wasn’t even sure if that was the right date when I was younger, my aunt and uncle lied about everything else relating to my parents so why wouldn’t they tell me that they died on a day associated with magic? And then when I learned it was real, Hogwarts Halloweens are really cool, so what did it matter? I don’t know, I just didn’t really feel it. 

I think about my parents a lot more since the war ended. I have time to, I guess. And when I got given pictures of them and saw them in a magic mirror (I have no idea what you do and don’t know of my ridiculous life), I was eleven, they looked like adults to me. And then I saw them because of some other magic at the Battle and I was taller than my mum and my dad was like my reflection. I mean, I’ve always looked like him, I’ve been told that so many times it stopped being a source of pride and honestly got annoying, but I’m almost his age and it’d never hit me before how  young they were. When they were my age, they were already married. I’m not far off the age they were when they had me, or when they died.

And I shouldn’t even be thinking about things like that, except what else am I supposed to think about at this time? And I can’t go visit their graves because people know their death date and go to pay their respects, which is nice, it really is nice that people care about my parents’ deaths, but it fucking sucks. I might get drunk tonight, seeing as it’d be stupid to tomorrow and have to deal with a hangover at work. 

What do you drink when you want to get drunk? Is that a thing you do? Hermione tells me that drinking to get drunk is binge drinking, which I said must mean that every person between sixteen and forty in this country is a binge drinker and she said, “Yes, it’s sad, isn’t it?” and what the fuck can you say to that? I didn’t need to say anything though because that set her off on “social expectations” and “desperation for belonging” and “insecurity to own their actions” and an extra “I expect magical people are more susceptible at the moment” just for good measure. She’s going to fix the world, Draco. I don’t think anyone cares as much as she does.

Anyway, I don’t really drink that much. Strictly butterbeer when I’m out, because people know what that looks like so I can’t get raked over the coals for promoting alcoholism. (I go out now, I know, it’s astonishing.) At home I’ll sometimes have a firewhiskey, which I associate with this feeling of calm and getting on with things. It makes me philosophise, which is actually terrible but it happens every time. I solve all the world’s problems when I have too much. Kreacher brings out elf made wine for special occasions, the Weasleys have wine from a local place, Ron and I drink beer sometimes because we’re English men and that’s what we do (and maybe Hermione has a point about cultural traditions). Beer just goes well with takeaway, which isn’t a super common occurrence because of Kreacher wanting to look after me 100% of the time. He’s old, though, so I make him take two days off a month (and it was a fucking pain even getting him to do that, I’ll take the small victory and keep working on that front). 

I can’t believe I started that paragraph off with “I don’t really drink” and then managed to make it sound like I’m an alcoholic in serious denial. It’s really like one night a month, often less. Tonight I’ll ask Kreacher for wine until he tells me no or Ron intervenes. He’s good, he sets me straight when I’m being a dickhead. Wish he’d hurry up and get home, Saturdays are busy at the shop. 

I’m listening to David Bowie on vinyl, one of my godfather’s old records. Don’t ask Sophie who he is, you should know. I might get his new stuff on record too, to round out the collection with stuff I know Sirius would have liked. Music’s good. I never really appreciated it at Hogwarts, there was a record player in the dormitory but I never thought to put anything on or even find out what was playing. I’m not really picky and I think my taste is really, aggressively normal, but you can’t listen to music better or worse than anyone else, unless you’re a complete wanker. I bet you listen to music really well, don’t you?

I think writing this has cheered me up a little bit, even if it doesn’t seem like it. I mean, I’m still going to get drunk tonight, that hasn’t changed. But maybe I won’t get blackout drunk. Maybe I’ll tell Ron how I’m feeling so he can make me pace myself. 

Reassuringly,

Harry

  
_ 25th November, 1999 _

_Harry,_

_ Good grief, how is that the date? Do you see how close we are to Christmas? Quick, tell me what you want for a present. If you don’t, you’re getting another candle.  _

_ Okay, that was flip. A very shameful part of myself would like to pretend I never said anything and that therefore you didn’t have to chastise me. I . . . don’t know what I was thinking. _

_ No, I do. I know exactly what I was thinking because I’m thinking it now: that I just want a normal life. I hate myself for thinking that, because it feels  _ _ reasonable _ _ to want things to be simple, but it’s not, and that’s not even what I’m wanting if I examine it. I don’t trust my parents to support me if I don’t do as they once wanted, I’m not brave enough to ask them about it and I don’t want to confront a bigotry that is so deeply ingrained in myself that I’m afraid I’ll be fighting it for years, maybe even forever. _

_ I’m sorry. I want to be better than this. I  _ _ will _ _ be better than this. I take it back, wholeheartedly.  _

_ I wish there was a potion for this shit, to help when you can’t stop yourself from thinking something you know to be wrong and just un-fucking-helpful. Sometimes I wish I was dead. Not because of what I said or what you said, just in general. But I don’t  _ _ actually _ _ wish I was dead, it’s not real, it’s just a thought that chases me around and makes me feel miserable. I’ve seen so much death, often as punishment, and I don’t think I deserve that. I don’t. So why can’t I stop thinking it? And I think Sophie is the best person I’ve ever known, so why can’t I stop thinking that ridiculousness about marriage and all that rot? _

_ Let’s say time will help. I don’t think obsession will. In the interests of that, I’m moving on. _

_ Okay, I’ve taken a day. Now I’m really moving on. _

_ I have watched Pride and Prejudice and approve of literally everything in it. It reminded me that I’m disappointed I didn’t get a ball for my seventeenth birthday. I haven’t been to one since I was just fifteen, some Ministry person’s something-or-other. Lord, I hope I can still dance. Did you know Muggles don’t do balls anymore? Sophie has taken me to a club as compensation, which was just about the most horrendous and brilliant experience of my life. Two men thought I was a woman, one knew I’m a man but that was doing it for him, one woman started grinding up against me with literally no warning, another spilled a full cocktail on me and another kissed me with so much tongue it was like kissing a Saint Bernard. The music was  _ _ aggressive _ _ , my ears rang until I fell asleep with the absence of it. The taxi fare back home was criminally expensive and Sophie slept the entire way back, which made it difficult for me to stay awake, despite being in a car (which I’m still not a fan of) and at the mercy of a middle-aged man we didn’t know. But it was excellent; somehow all those things are also positives.  _

_ Bridget Jones’s Diary was hysterically funny, thank Granger for the recommendation. Or don’t, I think I’ve had enough of being indebted to her for my literary enrichment. Besides, she’s probably only reading textbooks now that she’s doing her N.E.W.T.s.  _

_ Thank you for reaching out to Aunt Andromeda on my behalf. I really do appreciate it. My mother asked me unprompted how old Teddy is last week, which I think I got roughly right. He was born just before the Battle, right? (Is that his actual name? Or is it short for Theodore/Edward?) I take this as a good sign, that she’s interested.  _

_ I resent your thinking of me as insane. I’m eclectic. Also handsome, witty, intelligent and fucking worth marrying, you rude bugger. Proposal rescinded, you ungrateful beast. And share your television. Buy me one for Christmas. No, that’s a joke, don’t you dare. I’ll be buying my own, do not let me end up with two. I know your humour, I know you’d think that was funny, just stop. Get me a CD or something more appropriate, as you’re liking music now.  _

_ (Is joking about it okay? I’m only following your lead.) _

_ I’m sorry about your parents. I don’t really know what to say, because it’s just terrible and that’s that. Everything about it, that they were so young, that  _ _ you _ _ were so young, that you can’t mourn them at their graves, that you weren’t treated as you deserved where you ended up. I’m just so sorry.  _

_ I drink wine. And apparently vodka cranberries when Sophie’s buying. I’ve tried other things, but shiraz is where I live. It can hit hard and it stains my lips, but it makes me feel like I’m a lovely creature inside myself. I have a horrendous habit of staring at myself in mirrors when I drink too much. Are we even on the alcohol stories front? Because that’s quite enough revelations for my taste.  _

_ I’m drinking a wine right now, actually. I’m in the library at the Manor, there’s a fire in the grate and two antique candlestick holders on the desk, so I’m able to write easily. Oh, the electric is marvelous, wouldn’t change it for the world and gas lighting and etc. is almost as convenient, but fire makes me feel at peace. As does the wine. And the slightly journal-like catharsis of writing to you. I quite like you, you know. I wonder if you’re real. If this is you, even with your saying it is, or if you’re giving me your best self. I’m giving you  _ _ my _ _ best self, despite what it may seem, but it’s still me. And, really, thinking over some of the things I’ve written, I have given you my worst self too.  _

_ Heavens, I just remembered Christmas again. At least I have the decorations from last year and so will be able to use those. Oh, and the small dining room is restored at the Manor, so we’re very probably going to do lunch here.  _

_ I want snow. Those bastards up north already got a snow day, or half of one, it didn’t really stick to the ground. I want it though, I want it very badly. I love snow, it makes everything feel quiet. I don’t know if that makes sense. _

_ The first Christmas I can remember was when I was four and a half. I may be able to remember earlier ones and the impressions have just melted together, but I don’t really remember anything from before then. Christmas mornings were just for my parents and I, we’d open presents that were from each of us and then have a full English breakfast. That’s what I remember, sitting at the table and my mother asking me very seriously what I thought of her new earrings that my father had bought her on my behalf and my saying that they were very good because they were sparkly, then exalting sparkly things for the interminable amount of time that children can speak, but my mother just nodded and sometimes asked me more questions about my opinions. And they had bought me this puzzle, I was  _ _ fascinated _ _ by puzzles, it had lots of interlocking pieces and when you made them sit in the right position it set off tiny fireworks that felt fizzy if you put your hand over them, something I only found out when my father touched it. I had thought that touching it wouldn’t be allowed, but of course they wouldn’t have got me something that could have hurt me.  _

_ Some people seem to remember a lot of their childhoods, but I feel like I have a selection of quite strong memories and the rest is hazy. Oh, I do remember something from when I would have been slightly younger (still probably four, but it was summery so I think barely that), I have this vivid memory of riding my toy broomstick and other children pushing and playing roughly with each other on the ground. The broomstick could probably only get about five or six feet off the ground (which seems outrageously tall for a child now that I’m looking back, but I never fell), but I was looking down at them and half fascinated, half appalled. I couldn’t get my head around why anyone would want to do that and it never occurred to me that they had just gotten carried away. It’s amazing how I managed to suppress that as I grew older, though I still much preferred words as a weapon than anything physical, as you undoubtedly know. _

_ My wine is evidently making me all reminiscey. Not that it’s just the wine. I have been genuinely trying to find a gentler me, I think about this kind of thing completely sober too. I don’t  _ _ enjoy _ _ it, there’s something uncomfortable about remembering and trying to tease out the strands of thread that make me up, but I’ve become obsessive about it, like I’m another puzzle.  _

_ I don’t know if it’s productive. Though there is a lot that I’m ashamed of, I haven’t found a single thread I could pull free without unravelling the whole damn thing. And time magic doesn’t work like that, it’s all wrapped up in inevitability. Still, I think about it. _

_ That’s something Granger’s modernists were concerned with. Representing perception rather than fact, playing with unstable time. See, we might pretend that time is completely linear, that Tuesday comes after Monday and that we’re nineteen now and were once four and a half, but it’s not quite that simple. Okay yes, on one level it is, but that’s not really reflective of how we  _ _ experience _ _ time.  _

_ In this letter, for example, I began by anticipating Christmas, an event that will happen in the future. Sure, my experiencing of this future time during this present moment is not entirely accurate with how things will happen, it’s mostly speculation, but it’s not as if any of our experiences are  _ _ objective _ _. And then I’ve talked about my first remembered Christmas (whose accuracy is also very suspect), during which my recollections were more central in my mind than my surroundings. Yes, I experienced that in the past, but I also experienced it just now, in a different kind of way. And we’re such present-tense creatures, so my remembering that event right now is, in some ways, more relevant, more real than experiencing it in the past and same for imagining the future.  _

_ Of course, all of that is the highest wankery and very solipsistic, but it’s also true. You might want to put some Bowtruckle husks on the fire to appreciate it properly. Theo used to brag at his sister having “connections” that enabled him to do that all the time. If his exaggerations were to be believed, he was stoned for the entirety of every holidays from third year on. Of course, wine is performing this function fine for me. _

_ Ruminatively, _

_ Draco _

  
13th December, 1999

Draco,

I’m not mad at you. Let’s not, okay? I know you’re trying. It’s painfully obvious. Stop torturing yourself.

I’m happy with the candle. I don’t need a present at all and you started this exchanging nonsense, so you can’t be cross with me about it. Except of course you can, you’re Draco. Your dramatics are renown throughout the entire United Kingdom. Maybe you can give me an autograph for Christmas.

Teddy’s full name is Edward, for his grandfather. But don’t you go calling him that. You know that being overly formal with people creates distance, right? Teddy probably doesn’t even know he has a full name, I’ve never heard anyone call him Edward. He’s doing great, by the way. Diagon Alley has stalls on the weekends from now till Christmas and he’s come to help me do some present hunting there and also another time when we went to Muggle London. He’s so chatty and apparently incomprehensible to most people. I see him every week, sometimes twice a week, so I have practice. I’m sure if I saw him every day I’d probably get sick of it, but it hasn’t happened so far. It’s fascinating watching him learn. I guess your mum felt the same way given your story.

I can’t remotely imagine you at a club, though I haven’t been to one, so I don’t know why I think you’re less likely to fit in there than me. I’d like to experience it at least once, but this fucking famous thing. Hermione’s good at glamours, maybe I’ll ask her to help me out and we’ll go somewhere Muggle. I’ll update you if it happens. 

I’m not going to buy you a TV, but they go on sale next Tuesday and I’ve had a word to the woman who owns Gizmos and Gadgets to keep one aside under your name just in case they run out. It would have been funny, though. Are your parents getting more used to Muggle technology?

Your library set up sounds nice. I’m not on the wine, so I have no idea how to respond to that portion of your letter (and to be honest I don’t know if I would know even if I had a bit to drink). I try to be honest with you, though. Best and worst, like you said. 

By now you’ll have gotten at least a bit of the snow you wanted, though in my experience I doubt it’ll happen the way you seem to want it for a couple weeks yet. 

Your Christmas story was nice, the broomstick one . . . it wasn’t not nice? I like knowing you better, but child-you sounds lonely. Sometimes that strikes me, that I genuinely do want to know you better and want to hear of you being happy. We’ve come a long way since we started this (and even further between sixth year and the point where I was willing to write to you and you were willing to reply). It also strikes me that the child you describe makes sense to me. I can accept without doubt that you were once a lonely boy unable to close the physical and metaphorical distance between you and your future friends. 

It took me a while, but I think somewhere along the way I learned how to see things as more complicated than black and white. Can you try and do that too? To accept that you can have different threads, if that’s how you want to put it. You’re allowed to have a thread that holds that childhood, one that holds your emulating your dad, one that holds you becoming a Death Eater.  You’re not any one thing. You’re made up of so many things and the only thing you have control over is how you act right now.

Maybe that’s what I should say in my interview next week. They’ve persuaded me to say something to the Prophet for Christmas, who’ve promised not to take my words out of context, to let me read and approve the copy before they print and to keep Rita Skeeter as far away from me as humanly possible. 

They want a message for the holidays, something about peace and hope and charity, all that Christmas crap. Not that those things are crap, I do honestly believe in them, I just wish I didn’t have to do it. Or I wish that I actually  was being forced into it, because it’s all been very polite. They just said that a lot of people take their lives at Christmas and it was worse than usual last year. Is it arrogant of me to think I can make a difference there? Even if I don’t, I’ve been getting more and more used to belonging to the public. Every time I speak and don’t fuck it up, it gets a bit easier.

I’m not fourteen anymore. It’s not just that they know I have a lawyer who would love to earn herself some more fees by defending my name and right to privacy, though that definitely helps. I mean, when I was fourteen Dumbledore had actually done a really good job of keeping my name out of the papers up until that point, but there was a thousand kids at Hogwarts telling their relatives and friends about what I got up to. Youngest Seeker in a century; thwarted Voldemort’s attempt to come back to power at eleven; suspected of being the heir of Slytherin, stabbed a Basilisk to death and closed the Chamber of Secrets at twelve; blew up my aunt at thirteen . . . there was some newsworthy stuff. But the Prophet couldn’t touch any of it because of whatever the hell it was Dumbledore was doing.  Of course when Skeeter was allowed to actually report on me she went mad with it.

And I think I said a bit back that people were getting bored with me in my Auror robes going to work. Well, now they’re getting bored of me in the supermarket or me at the Harpies’ games or even me at the pub. I’m not that interesting. It’s really freeing. I hope this interview doesn’t fuck that up.

Speaking of work, it’s going well. I’m going on more missions and have less study, so I’m happy. We caught this bloke last week who was on something St Mungo’s hadn’t seen, which means someone’s dealing something that Mungo’s hasn’t seen, which makes for an interesting case. Robards is interested in what I’ve told him about Muggle rehabilitation and anti-drug measures, but he’s interested in literally everything I say. Still, there’s not really much support for wizards who abuse substances, so I’m taking it as a win. You can’t just magic away addiction, though there’s potions that help. And  they don’t work if the patient  wants to be addicted, something we’re seeing a lot of in the aftermath of the war. They’ll take any awful side effects if it means easing their pain.

Maybe I should talk about that in my interview. Merlin, I really need to figure out what to say. 

Happy Christmas.

Vociferously,

Harry

  
_ 28th December, 1999 _

_Harry,_

_ Merry Christmas and New Years and all that. Thank you for the videos, your strategy of choosing “masculine” ones to ensure I didn’t end up with double ups was unfortunately successful. I’ll have you know, I happen to value a story. These had a bounty of explosions and swear words, but that doesn’t make them more impressive. I still love them, so thank you.  _

_ Also, thank you for asking for my television to be set aside. They weren’t sold out, but I still appreciate it. I do  _ _ not _ _ appreciate being in your debt, so if you could need something only I, a garden centre worker or a check out boy can provide, that would be most convenient. I’d mention the archaeologist or ambiguously titled “student”, but I don’t know if I have their undying loyalties yet.  _

_ If you could ignore everything from my previous owl that sounded  _ _ contemplative _ _ or  _ _ pseudo-intellectual _ _ , that would be lovely. I was drunk enough that my head gave me considerable grief the next morning and rereading the copies I made did not help my good opinion of myself that day. Not that it was insincere, but heavens, I’m supposed to be British. I am allowed  _ _ one _ _ emotion per year. Luckily the year is nearly over and I can have a reset. _

_ Mind you, I look positively repressed next to your sincere sentiments over loving myself better. I’m joking to alleviate my own discomfort, I do appreciate it. You make an awful lot of sense, which is why, I suspect, your article will have made a difference. _

_ I know it was probably excruciating for you to do and for you to read, I have to admit I winced on your behalf at some description I’d probably have loved in a piece on Viktor Krum or whoever, but you have a way with words. Actually, scratch that. It’s not your words, precisely, it’s that no one could doubt your honesty or your surety. And really, the description will have hundreds of witches crying for your right to not have your ribs cracked open in pursuit of your deepest feelings or whatever. _

_ I can’t believe I used to think you liked the attention. Even when I was trying to make the news as horrible as possible towards you, I thought you must love it.  _ _ I _ _ would have. But looking back, I think the only time I ever saw you proud of people looking at you was when you caught the Snitch. Merlin, it’s been so long since I’ve flown. Actual and literal years. I don’t even know if I have a broom anymore, that seems like the kind of thing the clan of cunts would have destroyed by using recklessly. I can’t believe I haven’t checked.  _

_ Christmas at my place was lovely, as predicted. The small dining room is actually plenty large to be getting on with, but it’s not overly cavernous for our family once there’s two giant trees taking up half the room. I do miss having house elves. Which is not to say that my mother’s cooking isn’t exceptional, because it is, but it was unfortunate for her to spend so much time in the kitchen. My father and I joined her some of the time, but (just quietly) it was sometimes nice to have half an hour to myself. _

_ After dinner (tiny sandwiches as we ate so very much at lunch), my father and I got onto the roof by physically climbing up there (he does have a wand now but there was some reason behind it that I didn’t ask for) and had a firewhiskey together.  _

_ I’ll be honest with you, because I think I can be. I don’t know how to feel about him. He’s my dad and for  _ _ most _ _ of my childhood he was a good one. Part of my reflections have been trying to tease that out as well. He read me stories at night when I was young, taught me poetry, geography, how to recite our family line back to the 1000s when the Manor was first built. He used to show me off in front of his connections, he’d tell high-ranking Ministry officials to name a country to which I would know the capital city and describe their flag. I can’t quite tell if that was good fathering or not, looking back. It depends on my mood. I think he was genuinely proud of me, but when I’m feeling more critical I wonder if I was just a possession. _

_ And he had such high expectations. He wanted me to be top of every class, to prove myself on the Quidditch field and to make future connections. I have no idea if he intended me to feel this way, but I often felt as though I was letting him down, even though I was in the top three in our year in every class, won plenty of matches when you weren’t involved and had half of Slytherin eating out of my hand. It was very easy to pull up examples of him making me feel like shit and hate him when I was sixteen. _

_ And he was evil. I know you don’t like to call people things, so I’ll revise for your benefit. He did many evil things. I don’t see the same distinction in these definitions that you do, but there you go. He hurt countless people,  _ _ killed _ _ people, I know it even if I didn’t see it. He helped You-Know-Who be more powerful if absolutely nothing else and there are so many something elses. And he wasn’t exactly a paragon of model citizenry when he thought You-Know-Who was gone in the middle of the wars. He exploited and blackmailed and I don’t even know what else.  _

_ I don’t know if I know him. I don’t know whether to trust that he’s trying now. I know he’s cowed, that he accepts his loss and that he currently is just focusing on fixing the Manor, that it’s a kind of healing for him. But what will happen when he no longer feels defeated? When he starts to feel proud again? I have honestly no idea.  _

_ I want to just love him in a simple way, like I love my mother even though I know she’s done some things too. There’s no resolution here. I’m not going to figure out how to feel about him just because I’m writing this down, no matter how much it does genuinely help structure my thoughts. How do you feel being my diary? Please don’t hate my father because of this. I trust you to read without judgement, hell, you were there when his charges were read out, but I also can’t entirely silence that fear. And don’t hate me, either. I’m not quite sure why I think there’s a risk there, but my brain works in mysterious ways.  _

_ So, changing the subject because I don’t want to end on that: New Years is coming up. Last year was brilliant, we stayed up and drank hot chocolate laced with Baileys (thank you Sophie for introducing me to that) and my parents shared memories. New Years for as long as I can remember has featured an extravagant party that I was either excluded from or forced to attend. It definitely didn’t involve sincerity or remembrances. I shared some memories too, moments of friendship over the years, but mostly I just listened. I hope we do the same this year.  _

_ Sophie is at a resort that specialises in “winter comfort” in Coventry with her family and Dave was around for Christmas but is in London with some of his friends who go to university and attend raves at the moment, so I have plenty of time for peaceful evenings by the fireplace with a book (or a film! In the Manor! A Christmas miracle!), which I’m very much enjoying. I love the snow, even though it’s not as thick as it would be at Hogwarts yet. I think I was created for cold weather. _

_ Shivery-ly, _

_ Draco _

_ P.S. Did you know that the world may end this New Years? My friends assure me it’s rubbish, but they say it with a kind of excitement like maybe it’s not. Make it a good night, just in case. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotional ones! Thank you guys for your lovely comments, every one of them brightens my day!


	6. 1999 - Harry's Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry does an interview for the Daily Prophet.

Chosen One Chooses Kindness  
Interview by Alexis Boot

I meet Harry Potter in the private room at The Frog and Toad, a cute cafe in Muggle London where they serve tea for two in petite cups and where lily pads grace the edging of the tablecloths. He interrupts me the first time I call him Mr Potter to make me promise to call him Harry. He suggests emphatically that I order an eclair, which is of truly middling quality. When I tell him this, he shrugs. “I’m really not a fussy eater,” he says. 

I’ve seen Harry from a distance, of course. Along with just about every other witch and wizard out there, I’ve followed his “career”, eight years of being back in the wizarding world and eight years of standing against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. In some ways, meeting Harry Potter is a little like meeting a neighbour or the teller at a shop you frequent; his face is so familiar it’s as if he’s a breath away from being your friend. But of course he isn’t, he’s just the most famous man in the wizarding world. And he’s taller in person, a fact he claims he owes to his best friend, Ronald Weasley, not making him look shorter in comparison.

Earlier this year, he delivered a moving speech at the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. He stepped firmly into the footsteps of the well-renown and well-loved Albus Dumbledore, whose presence was keenly felt by all who had heard him speak about peace, unity and love. He already shares the honour of an Order of Merlin, First Class with Dumbledore for his defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and other wartime contributions. Perhaps soon his Chocolate Frog card will contain as many accomplishments as his mentor’s.

Today is somewhat different from that calm day in May when he spoke so passionately to a crowd of thousands. No one has forced him into dress robes, which is how he admits any occasion requiring them must begin for him. “I’m more comfortable in jeans,” he says, and indeed he is wearing them today. “It’s a compromise. I didn’t choose the shirt.” When I ask him who did, he stares at his sleeve for a long time with an expression of true bafflement. “Someone definitely did,” he says, which may have been obvious to some of our more astute readers. I left my observation that apparently no one had made him brush his hair unsaid. 

For Harry isn’t just The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One or The Saviour (all titles I have been given permission to use once in this article and never again to his face)—there’s a person behind all those heroic deeds that has left him as the most famous wizard alive. It is my mission to illuminate some part of that person today.

First things first, I want to know how he’s getting on with his position as an Auror, a topic that the Ministry has kept very quiet about.

H: It’s not so much that it’s a secret, though there are open cases to consider. It’s more that I want to be able to do my job without reporters trying to get an exclusive every time I step outside. No offence. 

A: None taken!

H: It’s good, though. Really good. I work with a great team and they definitely keep me busy.

A: No relaxing, not even for you?

H: I wouldn’t want them to go easy on me. I joined them because I wanted to make a difference and I’m not going to do that if I’m just playing darts in the break room or whatever.

Despite claiming that his job is not a secret, Harry is not forthcoming with details. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he says, leaning on the table and nearly toppling his tea cup. “I knew Aurors when I was at school, I think everyone has a vague idea of what we do. We investigate and solve dangerous crimes and do a really, really large amount of paperwork.” He shrugs as though there truly is nothing interesting about this. I decide to change my line of questioning.

A: Of course you already had copious experience with the Dark Arts; it’s why you were allowed to join the Aurors without going through their training. While countless stories have been given about the Battle of Hogwarts and we’ve managed to get tiny, little, itty-bitty pieces of information from you about the rest of your war experiences, our readers would love to know what you got up to and how it measures up to post-war life.

H: Wow, yeah. Er. I’ve found that almost everything I’ve done sounds a lot more impressive to talk about than it was to actually go through it. I had a lot of help and a lot of luck. I mean, there was hard work involved as well, but I wouldn’t have gotten through it alone even with a lifetimes supply of Felix Felicis. In some ways that’s exactly like being an Auror. My partner is incredible and there’s a whole team there to support me. Unlike the war though, I get to go home at the end of the day. I can quit if it gets too much and go march through swamps with my friend Luna, looking for creatures most of us don’t believe exist.

A: Would you like to do that?

H: _[Laughing.]_ No, not really. But the option’s there. It makes a difference.

A: And it undoubtedly makes a difference to have all of that behind you.

Harry is silent for quite a while. I let him think. He has a commanding presence for one so young, the kind that holds your attention even when he’s not in action. And it’s not just his fame. When he last spoke, he knew what he was supposed to say and he had that polite smile people sometimes get when they’re in front of a camera. I find that a lot of the people I talk to remember to compliment the people around them when they’re wearing that smile. When he speaks again, he’s more sombre, his green eyes bore into me with a ferocity that makes it very easy to believe that this man could take down the greatest threat the wizarding war has ever seen and walk away to face more terrors every day at his job.

H: The aftermath might be harder than the war. When you’re in a war, all you can think about is survival, you live in this strange state where you can’t imagine things a week from where you are, you might not be able to imagine things a day from where you are, because you’re conscious of the danger every second of every day and it doesn’t matter if you were on the front lines or in a relatively safe place, danger was hanging over all of us. And now that’s lifted and suddenly the future is vast, but it’s still so cloudy. It’s hard to imagine getting better. It’s easy to imagine that the feelings you’re feeling now are going to be with you for the rest of your life and suddenly that’s looking way too long.

A: Do you feel like that? Or are you suggesting our readers might?

H: Yes. To both. But a little less every day, even if it doesn’t feel like it. The other day I thought about how I was a year ago and until I thought about that I didn’t realise how much I’ve recovered. I’ll be honest, I was a mess. I’m kind of a mess now, but compared to last year . . .

He shrugs again. The gesture disrupts his intensity and suddenly I’m sitting across from a nineteen-year-old again. I’m struck by how young he is and how much that doesn’t matter. It’s impossible not to trust him.

A: So you think we should reflect on how far we’ve come?

H: Absolutely. But not just that, because some people feel worse than they did a year ago. People I know, people who are regarded as heroes and indestructible. There’s no shame in not being okay. What happened to us wasn’t okay! Any reaction you’re having right now is fine, even if it’s feeling depressed or furious or Merlin, even if you feel happy and at peace! There’s no right way to cope. I’d like your readers to know that it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.

A: You’re being very frank about your feelings. Given your previous reticence, I have to say I’m surprised.

H: Yeah, it’s . . . It really doesn’t come easily to me. But part of the reason I wanted to do this is because I thought it might help to know that you’re not in it alone. And I’m so proud of every one of us for managing to carry on, even when it’s hard. 

I find myself unable to ask him another question for the time being. The intimacy of his admissions, dear reader, is overwhelming. We’re both gravely aware that this is who he is to his core and that he’s letting me see it, not because of his comfort, but because he thinks exposing it will help someone, anyone. I am the Healer learning how the heart works by observing it beating without the protection of skin or muscle or ribs. He is the living cadaver breathing through the pain.

He seems grateful for the reprieve (and a little embarrassed) and we drink tea in a silence that neither feels comfortable nor uncomfortable. He could be anyone while he isn’t speaking, and yet he never stops being Harry Potter. This young man contains contradictions and I feel honoured to witness them.

A: I think you were very brave. And very young to be so brave.

H: Bravery is good, it definitely helped that I’m pretty good under pressure. But the harder path was always kindness. Dumbledore would have called it love. Sometimes it meant not cursing a flying opponent because even a painless one would make him fall to his death. Sometimes it meant understanding when someone had done the best they could with a terrible hand. Sometimes it meant freeing a dragon from Gringotts, but I don’t expect that one to be relatable. People tend to think that being kind is the easy path, that it’s giving in. But it’s not, it’s so much easier to reach for anger and there’s so many excuses to be righteous. The good thing about kindness is that you can be a little kind every day.

A: How are you going to be kind today?

H: I’m going to owl a friend and listen to another’s Quidditch match replay so I can tell her how brilliant she is tomorrow. Kindness doesn’t have to be big. 

He smiles at me like it’s a lesson, like it’s all a lesson. And I have indeed learned today. So we tuck his heart away and return to the safety of the whole.

A: Okay, one last question. It’s nearly the holidays, how are you going to spend them?

He looks relieved.

H: With my family.

I must look confused, which makes Harry laugh. I don’t feel laughed at, I feel included. His presence is like that. Maybe it is because I can tell he really does choose to be kind whenever he can.

H: I’m not trying to confuse you. The Weasleys have treated me like a member of their family since I was eleven, which meant more than I could ever express after not having that growing up. And because they’re incredibly welcoming people, I expect I’ll see a lot of friends there for Christmas lunch. I’ll eat far too much because no one could say no to Molly Weasley’s cooking and I’ll spoil my godson absolutely rotten. 

With that, I thank Harry for his time and conclude the interview. The impression he leaves me with is of a hero I could comfortably call by his first name. Our talented photographer has attempted to capture the beauty of this afternoon I spent with an exceedingly charming man, who happened to save the world last year. 

As we go our separate ways, Harry doesn’t turn back. There is something in his frame of walking that suggested that this interview came at a kind of cost. I find myself truly glad that he has such wonderful friends—and family—in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a different chapter! I had fun writing this one and getting into the voice of an interviewer. I like writing creative non fiction outside of fanfic, I hope you guys like this too!


	7. 2000 - Jan - Mar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco continue to exchange letters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regularly scheduled programming of letter writing and _holy fuck,_ this only covers three months. I'm leading up to something, which requires _time_ and apparently these guys are just baring their souls to each other in a really chatty way. Hope you guys are still liking it!

18th January, 2000

Draco,

Look at that, the world didn’t end! Hermione tells me that it was never going to  end , but that it could have had a lot of really bad consequences for computer programs and banks and a lot of Muggles worked really hard for literally years to keep anything bad from happening. She thinks the real story is a lot more interesting than the rumours of planes dropping from the sky, but what does she know?

Thank you for the candle and the snow globe. There’s a “Made in China” engraving on the base of the globe, does that mean you enchanted a Muggle one? It’s nice. 

Of course you read the article. Everyone read the article. I mean, it’s better than it has been in the past. She was nice enough, not like Rita who felt like she might unhinge her jaw and swallow me whole. But  fuck . All that shit about—Merlin, you read it, you know how she went on.

I highly recommend flying again, it’s brilliant. Teddy’s getting good, so if you want to hold your own when you meet him then you’ll have to get back into it. It’s funny, he’s pretty good at walking now but he’s been able to fly steadily for months. 

Your euphemisms for Voldemort and the Death Eaters are always entertaining and that one made Ron laugh. 

About your dad . . . I think one of the major lessons I’ve had to learn over and over again has been that adults are complicated. It’s a shitty lesson and it always surprises me when it comes up again. I don’t think it really sunk in until I was on the run and spending a lot of time thinking about things, trying on my own to practice an empathy that I never really got the hang of when Dumbledore was teaching me.

I don’t know your dad, but I understand not being sure if you’re loved or used. If there is an answer to that for either of us, I think it’s going to be a percentage of each of those things and as shit as that maybe is, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Everyone gets advantages from loving people sometimes, you know? Help with homework or somewhere to stay or even just feeling good from having company. I feel pretty okay with that most of the time. There are things Dumbledore could have done better and I’ll probably always be a bit angry about that, but that’s okay because I can feel multiple things towards him. I guess it’s a bit easier for me because he’s dead. I don’t have to figure out how to relate to him now. 

I just thought, “I wonder if he was alive if he’d want to see me now that I’m not ‘The Chosen One’” and that hurts. I have no idea. Okay, I’ll just . . . deal with that later. 

The important thing is that I think you probably don’t have to figure out how to feel about your dad all in one go. I don’t think caring about him has to be some statement about your approving of all his actions either. And there you go, I’m not really your diary, am I? Because I don’t have the decency to let you process your crap at your own pace. Not that it’s crap. You know what I mean. I don’t hate you or your dad. Or anyone, really, but even if I did I wouldn’t hate you.

I hope you ended up having the lovely New Years that you described. Mine was brilliant, I don’t know if you’ll believe me.

Without telling me (and with a full N.E.W.T. study load) Hermione had been brewing Polyjuice at Hogwarts. “Well, it’s a restricted substance that we have no reason to use, I didn’t want to go on a watch list,” she said, as she broke the law, illegally. “It seemed simpler to use the ingredients that I could source entirely at Hogwarts,” she said, as if she just nipped down to the shops for Boomslang skin. It’s actually a N.E.W.T. level potion, but apparently they monitor the levels of all the really good stuff very closely so she couldn’t have just done it in class, though I think Slughorn would have turned the other way for her.

So, armed with the faces of three unremarkable Muggles, Ron, Hermione and I went to a Muggle club in London. Merlin and Arthur too, it was  loud . Hermione had a timer on to keep our disguises up and we danced and drank and generally made fools of ourselves. I kissed a boy for the first time and then laughed out loud at myself, which made him walk away pretty quickly. Yeah, I’m not straight. I mean, I knew. I didn’t need to experience it to know, really, even though I kind of thought I was making it up just to make life more difficult for myself sometimes, or maybe to justify the way that I wasn’t able to make things work with the perfect girl. It wasn’t even a good kiss, but yeah. Obvious.

I think I like techno now. I have to investigate when I’m sober, but I haven’t had a chance to go to the record store for a while. I know, I’m a snob. The record player was Remus’s though and Andromeda gave it to us when we moved in because Sirius had all these records and no way to play them. Remus brought it to Hogwarts too, both times apparently. I never talked with him about music, but I didn’t realise I liked it myself until recently. I mean, I like music, everyone likes music, but still. Apparently he was a purist, no CDs or cassettes for him. Sorry Remus, but I have to take the side of the discman for the convenience.

It was really good to have Hermione back for a couple weeks and we’re still feeling her absence now that she’s at Hogwarts again. It’s weird, there’s been a couple times over the years where it’s just been me and Hermione for weeks on end and I know how that goes. I got sadder because I couldn’t really be as silly with her, even though she is genuinely funny. She could sit and read literally every hour she’s awake, so it’s a quieter kind of friendship when Ron’s not around. But without her, it’s kind of flat in a way I can’t really explain. 

Work’s been busy. Apparently the holidays bring with them an increase of violence, which is usually the M.L.E.P.’s job to take care of, but whenever there’s spillover we help out. It’s weird, most of my cases before Christmas were private. Like, we’d take someone in every now and then, but a lot of it was investigation and the people we take down are generally off to Azkaban. But doing the drunk and disorderly beat, I’m properly in public. You should have seen how much a wizard apologised to me as he was actively pissing himself. Very glamorous job I have. 

That’s winding down a bit now, which is good because our work has been piling up with fewer hands on deck. There’s not as many Aurors as I thought there’d be, but I always have this idea of the wizarding community as a lot bigger than it is. And there’s a lot of work at the moment, even if it’s decreasing. I think it’s decreasing. According to Evelyn, the dream is for us to be a four person department who mostly deal with petty criminals and occasionally the bigger stuff. 

It hasn’t been like that in her lifetime, because even when people thought Voldemort was dead his ideas lingered in a way they aren’t this time. A lot of people thought they could be the next Voldemort. We’re seeing a bit of that now, but nowhere near as much. Voldemort’s first defeat was a spell backfiring, no matter how much you want to attribute to my infant powers, so you go, okay, that could happen to anyone and didn’t mean he was wrong. His second one was me talking him into a babbling defensiveness and then beating him in a duel, if you want to call it a duel. Most people seem to. Point is, I’m still around and an Auror, so the few people who have thought they’re the next big thing have been pretty fucking panicked to see me. I’m a good dueler, but Evelyn has me beat 10-1, so they’re really misdirecting that. Doesn’t really matter. 

Oh fuck, I nearly forgot to tell you. Fleur’s pregnant. She told us back in October, so I’ve been really slack in mentioning that. She’s due late April. And you know when people say pregnant people glow? Yeah, that’s literal in Fleur’s case. Something about her Veela blood. She can’t go into Muggle areas and she kind of struggles to get around in wizarding ones. Ron’s steering clear so he doesn’t get clobbered, but I’m fine. You know, gay. Probably should have realised when all the other boys were tripping over themselves to catch a glimpse of her and I was just like “yeah, she’s aesthetically pleasing, but?” We live and learn.

Every time I go outside and nearly freeze my bollocks off I remember that this is your favourite season and feel intense disbelief. I like winter in theory, but I’d really like spring to hurry up now. Ron says I’m like a dog that hasn’t been walked enough, it’s driving him mental. No one will fly with me in this weather except Ginny and she’s not allowed to deviate from her training schedule. She still  does , but she can’t do it that often or her coach will notice. I’m this close to going to one of the Harpies’ practice sessions and begging them to let me join in, but I’m not going to do that. Not just because they really wouldn’t let me.

Restlessly,

Harry

  
  


_ 10th February, 2000 _

_ Harry, _

_ Good grief, I could feel your energy off the page. You know there are indoor gyms, don’t you? Or you could run, you seem like you would enjoy running. Sophie runs and the cold doesn’t stop her. I’m glad you two aren’t likely to meet and gang up on me, I’ve basically done nothing with my fitness since I quit the Quidditch team. Unless stressing counts as exercise. That’s how the models do it. (Dave has banned me from developing a smoking habit even though Faizan is allowed. Faizan makes it look very cool so this is extra aggravating and I feel sure that our Healers could deal with whatever complications arose. Faizan has told me not to because it makes them taste bad in  _ _ every _ _ respect, which was highly embarrassing and quite a pity. This tangent is brought to you by the fact that models seem to smoke instead of eating, I forgot to say that at the start.) _

_ Yes, I did charm the snowglobe. You have to shake Muggle ones and I feel that’s a shame, because you would certainly break them. Wizard ones are a lot better in an objective sense, but I like that Muggles manage to make the little scenes without magic. It’s amazing the things they have developed to get by.  _

_ Your words about my father are very sensible. I think I’d be much happier if I could put them into practice. It’s not happening. The best I can do is put it mostly out of my mind, though it sneaks up on me all the time. I’m sure my brain will get tired of torturing me at some point. _

_ And then your words about Dumbledore make me want to make you a cup of tea. I wasn’t at all close with him, obviously. He seemed very unapproachable, not because he wasn’t friendly, obviously his whole thing was that he was friendly and he probably would have sat down and talked with me about Gobstones if I’d prompted it, the silly man. But there was a distance about him, as though not a single person in the world could truly know him. Something about his fame, perhaps. I wonder if that’s how people feel about you. Apparently not, according to your article.  _

_ I’m glad you got out and to a club. Apparently some people go every night, which seems entirely too much to me. I can’t believe you liked the music, I thought it was just something that had the right time signature for sex/dancing as though you’re having sex, and a necessary evil to be endured. This is not the first time I’ve feared for your musical taste. _

_ When I picture you, Granger and Weasley are eternal spectres accompanying you. Strange enough that you don’t have them with you when you’re working, it’s  _ _ very _ _ strange that you’re literally in another country from Granger. Don’t you know they’re always there unless you’re flying? How about you, how do you go about imagining me without my shadows? It’s strange going from Hogwarts, where I felt like I practically had an armed escort at every moment, to having adult friendships, in which my friends have work and girlfriends and general lives that I’m not a part of. Rude of them, honestly. _

_ Your work makes my general lounging about look very dull in comparison, though I’ll take that over being pissed on (the story is better if he’s pissing on you). You must cut a very impressive figure. You did at our trials, I genuinely feared that you would curse the Minister if you weren’t listened to right at that moment. I never worried about getting on your bad side at school, so perhaps it was seeing how calmly you took down that creature who had been torturing me for months. Maybe I needed a year to stop associating you with the skinny eleven-year-old you never quite stopped being in my mind up until . . . up until you gave up on such small time fare as Jelly-Legs Jinxes in my direction.  _

_ I’ve always loved the winter. In part because I can really pull off a pair of earmuffs. Also hats. Literally every hat looks good on me. Sophie put me in a fez we found at a market once and I looked amazing. But also my mother’s Warming Charms have this feel, it’s like the memory of tasting cinnamon. And winter makes me remember the surprise of my father shoving snow down the back of my robes and laughing like my outrage was the funniest thing he’d ever seen and the nights come on so much faster. Night energises me. _

_ Despite my affinity for this weather, I would still probably not fly in it because I am not clinically insane.  _

_ So, news! Sophie and Chelsea have moved in together. Chelsea has to move around every so often for archaeology reasons, but they’ll make it work. They are repulsively happy, and I mean that literally. I see them and I skitter away to the other side of the street. I’m in danger of being run over by a crazed motorist and they won’t even look away from each other’s eyes in order to witness my last moments. “I leave everything to Potter,” I will gasp with my dying breath, but alas, the only ones who could have known what that meant will be too busy making out several feet away and so you will get nothing. _

_ Sophie’s brother is also put out and therefore he is my new best friend. His name is Xavier and he does something or other with computers and collects Legos. I didn’t know what Legos were until he showed me. They’re tiny little bricks that interlock and you make sculptures out of them. Ridiculously, they come with instruction manuals. Not much of a puzzle in my opinion, but then it’s not as though you can start with the corner pieces like a regular jigsaw. _

_ Abandonedly, _

_ Draco _

19th February, 2000

Dear Draco,

I’m sorry about the curse. You apologised to me ages ago and I should have said that then, but I just didn’t. I didn’t know what the spell did, but I can’t use that as an excuse. I’m really sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever regretted anything more.

Hard to move on from that to regular letter stuff, actually. I hope you don’t think I’m an arsehole for keeping on going. Maybe that should have been a separate letter. But here I go, possibly being an arsehole.

Good on Dave from keeping you away from cigarettes. I have no idea if we have cures for cancer and all our teeth falling out and terrible tasting spunk (apparently??), but it’s probably best not to risk it. You’re too thin as it is, or you were a year ago. 

On your suggestion, I decided to run for reasons that were not “oh fuck I’m going to die”. It turns out that I am not as fit as I thought I was, but it does make me stop pacing around and my sleep is better. Ron has come with me a couple times and he makes it look easy, long-legged bastard. 

I actually have no problem imagining you alone. Probably because I saw you alone plenty in sixth year. I basically followed you around obsessively for a while there. Thought you were up to something. In my defence, you were. It drove literally everyone I know mad, no one thought Voldemort would have recruited you so young and when you’re so . . . like you’re not exactly top pick when you think of heartless killing machine, are you? And obviously everyone knew my history and thought I was letting that colour it, which I probably was, but I was also  right . Not that I particularly felt proud of that once it was proven.

Tell Sophie and Chelsea I say congratulations. I know you think Sophie deserves the moon, so I don’t believe you for a second when you say that you resent her happiness. I know you ended things in a friendly way, but are you sore over her moving on so completely? It’d be understandable. I’m going to assume that’s the case as an excuse for your ridiculous theatrics. 

A weird thing happened to me yesterday. It’s part of the reason I’m replying to you so quickly (for me), because I wanted to tell someone. Don’t feel the need to rush and reply, it’s not a secret or anything. I’ll tell Ron in a bit. Just for now, this is quieter. 

I was in Regulus’s old room (I’m assuming you know the full Black family tree), because I’d bought this painting I thought would go well with the paint I’d done on the walls in there. I’d kept the floorboards and just done a new finish on them, put a rug down to give it some warmth. I know you’d abandon me as a pen pal if I wasn’t so good at descriptions. Honestly, I don’t know how to make the picture more clear. The walls are blue. The painting has shapes. Whatever.

Anyway, somehow I hadn’t noticed while I was on my hands and knees sanding back and polishing these floorboards (they’re brown) that one of the boards is loose. My theory is that I kept my weight distributed across it in such a way that it wasn’t obvious. Anyway, at first I was thinking I’d just go get my hammer and fix it, but then I remembered all the shit I used to hide under loose floorboards. So I lifted it up and there’s nothing, but I’ve been the hider of things so I knew where to look and I found a pillowcase kind of stapled to the underside of some strutting. Really good hiding.

I pulled it out thinking that it’d be more Black junk that I could probably give to Kreacher or chuck, but inside it was a book, a Remembrall and a camera, plus equipment. 

The book is full of some language that uses not-English characters, no idea if they’re Runes. Could be Japanese for all I know, I don’t have an eye for this kind of thing. I squeezed the Remembrall, which stayed clear, so it’s not like I knew the language but had forgotten it. And then I made my mind go a bit vague and blank and the bastard turned red, so apparently I’ve forgotten  something .

The camera’s the important thing, though. I’ve used shitty disposable cameras, not sure if you’ve encountered them. You take a picture and there’s a snap, then you roll the film so you can take another and it makes this really satisfying rrrr-rrrr-rrrr noise, but it hurts your thumb if you have to take too many in a row. There, I  can describe things. Merlin, why am I describing this in so much detail. I think I’m an avoidant person.

The button you press to take a picture didn’t make any noise when I pressed it and I couldn’t see through the glass window, it was all foggy and weird. But on the bottom were the initials S.P.B. That’s Sirius, right? I don’t know his middle name. It has to be Sirius’s. I don’t think it’s magic and no one else in this house would have had a non-magical camera. I have no idea why Regulus kept it, their relationship was not great and I don’t think turning traitor on Voldemort would be enough to change that. 

I don’t know what to do with it. I haven’t found that much here that belonged to him, his parents chucked it all out when they disowned him and then he wasn’t exactly in the position to go shopping once he got out of Azkaban. The most personal things I have of his is his old leather jacket which I found confiscated in the Ministry, his records and his bike, which is . . . not in one piece. And like clothes and stuff but they don’t feel as important.

I dunno, can you see me as a photographer? I’m probably going to find a shop or something where they can tell me if it needs repairing or film or whatever it is cameras need. I like paintings with weird shapes but I don’t think that translates into being good with a camera. But it’d be good to have some pictures of Teddy. Friends too, but he’s the one who comes to mind because I swear he grows between every time I see him. Well, less so than it was. How’s your mum going on that front? Has she said anything more about reconnecting with Andromeda?

I’ll tell another Teddy story in case you want to use it for that purpose. He’s starting to get this real personality about him and hilariously he’s really strict with me. I’d let him do anything, ice cream for breakfast, play through naps, practice falling off his toy broom, whatever he wants. The consequence of this is that he thinks I need boundaries. He puts me down for a nap (I still have to read the story, but seeing as he can’t yet this is fair), I get told off if I don’t take my shoes off at the door and he’s constantly saying, “You’re being silly, Harry” in this grave little voice. I can still get him to go along with my silliness thankfully, he’s ridiculously ticklish and he gets this squeaky little laugh when I even threaten to tickle him. And I very seriously read him a story a couple weeks ago and he told me he wanted me to do the voices again. And he likes that I’m always asking him to change the colour of his hair or the shape of his nose because he can show off. 

Mushily,

Harry

_ 6th March, 2000 _

_ Dear Harry, _

_ Thanks for apologising. Let’s just not dwell on it, okay? It was complicated. I like what we have now.  _

_ I don’t have feelings for Sophie anymore. But I sort of sat and thought about it after you said that and I think I wouldn’t be so pissy if I had someone too. I don’t like the idea of losing her, she’s my best friend. It’s hard when someone is the most important person in your life but you aren’t their most important person.  _

_ I can see you as a photographer, actually. I think you like watching people (and not just for the stalkery reasons, not just me) and I think you would like not being in the photo yourself. Sirius’s middle name was Pollux according to mother, for his grandfather. Two stars, but that’s firstborns for you. We’re special.  _

_ You’ve talked about Sirius a couple of times and my father told me that You-Know-Who used the threat of hurting him to get you to the Ministry, but I can’t wrap my head around how any of that happened. How did he go from being an escaped murderer to model godfather? I understand if talking about him is too painful, I’m just curious. _

_ If you don’t want to bother Granger, copy out some of the characters and send it to me. I did Ancient Runes as well and I speak enough Mandarin to be able to recognise it (though not nearly enough to do anything useful). There’s some powerful wizards in China and apparently a Lingua charm is not as impressive as being able to very slowly ask what someone is doing on the weekend. I can still ask that! Funny the things you remember; the word for “magic” has completely left my memory.  _

_ Do you remember when you caught that Remembrall in first year? Of course you do, it got you your position as Seeker. I hated you so much for that, I was  _ _ sure _ _ I’d be able to outdo you at flying. The only bright side was that I was convinced I’d gotten you expelled and then you ruined that too! I raved about it for hours in the common room. Thinking about it now, it’s so hard to remember what that felt like. I remember being very dramatic about it and I remember feeling like my words didn’t even cover my feelings, but it’s like looking at a kitten hissing and spitting at a leaf that surprised it. What on earth is that creature making a fuss for? _

_ Your stories about Teddy make me smile every time. You’re clearly a good godfather. I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be so good with kids, but then I didn’t have a very good picture of who you are. It makes sense now. I would love to see a small child put you down for a nap. Do you actually go to sleep? _

_ Faizan set me up on a date last weekend. She is  _ _ not _ _ like Sophie, which I really need to stop thinking of as a bad thing. Natalia goes to university with Faizan (they both study “Arts”, which is not like painting or whatever, it’s . . . unclear what it actually is) and came down for the weekend with them. Faizan doesn’t come home every weekend, because the drive is no small thing from Oxford, but they do come fairly often. I think constantly how much easier it would be if they could Apparate or take the Floo. Anyway, she came with them this time, at least partially because apparently Faizan thinks we’re perfect for each other. _

_ What they mean by this is that we’re both bitchy. It’s not as though this is unfamiliar to me, I dated Pansy for over a year, but Pansy would back down the moment I even slightly disagreed with her. Natalia does not. We went to a film (O Brother, Where Art Thou), both because obviously I knew I would enjoy that and because it seemed like a good idea to have something to talk about when we went for coffee afterwards. Of course, we still had the drive there, but that was fine. We talked about her studies, about my helping renovate my parent’s Manor. (So,  _ _ so _ _ edited, because I couldn’t exactly tell her that the Monday previous I spent nearly four hours holding a curse in place so that my father could untangle the bastard, but I’ve found that “I do nothing” is too obviously a lie as even people who do nothing fill their time somehow.) I could tell she had spirit, but thought it quite refreshing. _

_ Anyway, she talked through the film (!!!!!) and we argued about it over coffee, which she drinks black, obviously drawing my ire and resulting in my accidentally subjecting myself to her mocking the amount of sugar I take in mine. I turned the conversation to other films, she doesn’t think well of my taste  _ _ at all _ _ and got so caught up in telling me about her apparently superior taste that we ordered more coffee, twice. I blame the fact that we were jittering out of our skin for the fact that I took her home when we got back to Marlborough.  _

_ Apparently she’s coming down next time Faizan does, at which point I suppose I’ll take her out again. Sophie says I’ve complained about her so much that I must like her, which I resent.  _

_ She said that The Princess Bride is cheesy and overrated! It appears I’m not done complaining.  Cheesy , Harry. Oh, I see that perfect comedic timing and gentle devotion is cheesy now! She didn’t like the sword fight scene between Westley and Inigo Montoya. I considered taking her to St Mungos, Statute of Secrecy be damned, because clearly a Flesh-Eating Slug has found its way into her brain and is slouching around her common sense receptors.  _

_ Anyway, I’ve also ventured out into wizarding society twice, once to buy my mother some new robes for her birthday and once just to have lunch and revel in the fact that no one was cursing me. It’s not that I necessarily thought they would, but I was sweating the entire time all the same. The waiter had a look about him like he recognised me, but who’s to say? I almost want to take my mother out, but if anything happened to her I’d feel awful. _

_ Oh, and another thing about Natalia! She thinks romantic comedies are “predictable and yet somehow less realistic than science fiction”! I had a lot to say about that, namely that no one complains when the action movie star saves the day at the end of the movie, which he (it’s almost always a he) always does. You never know how the characters in romantic comedies will navigate their feelings, there’s nothing predictable about love! And besides all that, what cynical arsehole is thinking about “oh, I’ve seen a film where people fall in love before” when they’re watching another film? I’m taking her to something  _ _ really _ _ romantic next time, that will show her. _

_ Spitefully, _

_ Draco _

  
  


28th March, 2000

Draco,

I like the camera, as you predicted. I’m not good with it yet, most of my photos come out blurry. I’m learning how to focus and what the different lenses do. Hermione gave me the names of some photography books, which I’ve flicked through but I’m mostly just learning through having a go. It’s not magic, so I don’t have to worry about accidentally blowing something up. Well, not until I get my dark room set up. You can develop photos at home if you have the right stuff, not that it’s easier or better than getting it done at a shop, it’s just that I think it’s cool. Even then, I don’t think anything’s going to explode. 

Apparently I’ve been inspiration for Ron’s new Wheezes ideas. He’s really good at thinking through how to make things work, but he usually leaves the ideas up to George. But now they’re working on trick cameras which are enchanted so that all the people in the pictures are making stupid faces or wearing stupid costumes. Then there’s one where you point it at someone and when you click the shutter button it sends out a net that captures them. 

I’ve made a duplicate of the book I found and attached it. Hermione’s not coming home for Easter because she’s stressing about N.E.W.T.s, so I’m not going to ask her any time soon. Don’t worry if you can’t figure it out.

Right, so, Sirius. You know he broke out of Azkaban in third year and obviously he didn’t actually murder Pettigrew, so he got cleared for that eventually, even if it was too late. The night I met him, he wanted to take me away from the Dursleys and look after me and I can’t describe how that made me feel. I knew he  wanted to look after me, that I wasn’t an obligation to him but that he wanted me around anyway. And he was kind of wild, but I knew I’d always be safe with him. 

In fourth year, he hid out near Hogwarts so he could be close while the Tournament was happening. We used to visit him on Hogsmeade weekends. He cared about me in a pretty father-figure kind of way, but he also treated me as an equal, which I hadn’t really had before. I’d had Dumbledore and Arthur, even Remus to an extent, but they all worried in a way that was really different to Sirius. Sirius worried, yeah, he was really stressed about the Dark Mark at the World Cup and then my name being put in the Goblet of Fire, but he did it in a way that didn’t make me feel like a kid. I reminded him a lot of my dad, but I know he loved me for me, too. I understand it better now I have Teddy; I see so much of Remus and Tonks in him and I think my connection to them makes him special, but at the same time, he’s Teddy, not Remus’s son. And no, I don’t actually nap with him. I’m a deep sleeper and I don’t want him waking up and getting up to mischief. I lie down with him and focus on being in my body, which Hermione says is good for me.

I miss Sirius. Being here makes it better and worse. Better because I know I’m not forgetting about him or moving on from him and I get a lot of satisfaction from imagining him in this version of his house, a version that’s clean, nice, not remotely dark and barely Black, where he could leave whenever he wanted. But it’s worse because he didn’t actually get to see this and he never will, because sometimes I’ll be in the kitchen and I’ll remember so strongly him leaning back in his chair and throwing grapes at Remus while Molly wasn’t looking and it hurts. I actually thought about getting a dog, not to replace him or anything, but just because I loved his Animagus form and I think I’d love a dog too. I work too much, though. 

Making you angry was almost the best part about getting the Seeker position. It was edged out narrowly by actually playing Quidditch and finding out my dad had been a great player before me. But it was  really satisfying that you were mad about it, especially after all that talk about what a great flyer you were. 

I have no idea what to think about your description of Natalia. I can’t tell if she really bothers you or if you’re in love with her. You know you don’t have to see her again, right? And she doesn’t have to see you again either, she’s clearly choosing to. Keep me updated on this, it sounds like an absolute disaster. 

Good on you for getting out into the wizarding world. It can’t have been easy. Honestly, people should have better things to do than bother you. I know that’s not actually the case though, because people are weird like that. I’m not as restricted as I was either, which is nice.

I went to lunch with Ron, Neville, Dean and Seamus the other day. A Gryffindor reunion of sorts, even though I see Ron and Dean all the time. I work with Dean, I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned that. It was good to catch up with everyone though. Neville’s been in France because of some plant fellowship and Seamus has been in Ireland with his family, working with a charity that’s focused on helping places outside of England that were affected by the war. They’re thinking of expanding to cover northern England too, because “The Ministry might as well just cover London, the smug bastards”. 

Neville had a look at my backyard while he was here. It was all paved over and I hated it, but I didn’t actually realise it existed for a really long time, so it doesn’t bother me. Anyway, Ron and I were talking about how not-awful the place is and Neville was like “and the garden?”, I think because he’d kind of been taking a back seat (the rest of us are loud) and it was a way back into the conversation. And I told him it was hideous so he offered to help make it not hideous. 

Seamus was actually the one to get rid of the paving, he used a very neat spell that didn’t even explode. Neville then looked at the soil quality (not good), paced out the space (bigger than our Muggle neighbours’ undoubtedly, but not vast or anything) and did a lot of climate measuring spells. He quizzed us about how much we knew about looking after plants, which is basically nothing. When Crookshanks (Hermione’s cat) lives with us he eats anything that looks like a leaf, so we don’t have any houseplants. I could have put them in rooms he couldn’t get into, but then I wouldn’t have seen them or remembered to water them. Neville’s horrified by the very idea of us not having a single plant.

So he’s drawn out a plan and I have homework before he comes back in about a month, when he’ll help me with the actual planting part. The most important part is making the ground usable and he thinks raised flowerbeds are the crup’s bollocks so I’ll install those. We’re going to plant a couple kinds of grass that won’t grow past four/five-ish inches, so we won’t have to mow and some of it will flower in spring and summer which will be nice. And then there’ll be a portion that’s food stuff, because Neville says that buying herbs is always a waste and he’s never known anyone to get through a full lettuce before it starts to wilt and with my tendencies it’d be useful to have some Dittany and we might as well have some strawberries, because who doesn’t like strawberries? 

And everything will be cat friendly so that Crookshanks isn’t poisoned (no lilies for us), even though Neville says he probably won’t eat things in the garden, it’s just a cat thing to be a nuisance. What he doesn’t seem to understand is that Crookshanks has literally stolen spinach leaves from my hands. So I guess my weekends are going to be devoted to this for a bit. Teddy likes helping me dig, but watching him means that I get basically nothing done except playing in the dirt, which I’m pretty much okay with except that I’m really behind.

I’m actually writing this at work because I’m feeling like I’m running out of time at home, so I better go before Evelyn realises that I’m not copying out the protocol for identifying and subduing enchanted objects that aren’t registering as cursed.

Secretly,

Harry


	8. 2000 - April - June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco continue exchanging letters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting hard to do summaries that are remotely unique but I guess I'll just do ones like the above for the benefit of new readers haha

_ 18th April, 2000 _

_ Harry, _

_ I am unimpressed by your writing to me when you should be working. Disappointed, even. Dismayed. No, I don’t really care. I’m writing this while ostensibly I’m spending quality time with my parents. They’re in the same house, it probably counts. _

_ Right, book first. This isn’t in any official language I could find, I’m fairly sure it’s coded. I’ve tried the obvious ones, in which letters are substituted for symbols but it’s basically written in English, in which the same, but the words are reversed (so “desrever” would look like nonsense outputted from code but could mean “reversed”) or in which the same, but the words are shifted one letter down in the alphabet (so “shift” would be “tijgu”). The problem is that if the writer was using a cipher, I don’t know what it is. I like codes, I used one myself in my diary when I kept one (letters for symbols and written in Italian, which this also is not), but I never experimented with others and so this is lost on me. I’ve abandoned it as a project, because while attempting to solve it amused me, I’m a sore loser. “No!” I hear you cry. “But Draco, you have always been so gracious in my presence!” Yes, thank you and you are quite right, but underneath this cool facade is a man who used to make Snitches explode with untrained magic rather than let anyone else catch them before Hogwarts. _

_ Keep me updated on your adventures in photography. It’s good practice to have a photographer as one’s friend when you’re as pretty as I am. A dark room sounds interesting, but also very fiddly. If you use a fairly easy potion, you’ll be able to develop them so they move, but really, you live in London, you could just take them to a shop. _

_ Thank you for telling me about Sirius. He sounds special. I hate that you didn’t feel wanted before him, it makes me absolutely livid, but I know that wasn’t your intention in telling me, so I won’t focus on it. I think you’d be an excellent dog owner, given your child skills and your own need for be taken out for walkies.  _

_ What I’m hearing is that I was the highlight of your Quidditch life. I’m very flattered, obviously. No, but seriously, I can relate to the pleasure in making you angry. I’d spend any length of time on a project if I thought I’d get a reaction out of you. And look at me now, I’ll spend weeks pouring over strange symbols on the off chance that you’ll like the translated material. No idea why, you’re really not that impressive, but let’s put it down to me getting caught up in projects.  _

_ I am  _ _ not _ _ in love with Natalia. I have seen her twice more since my last letter, and during our last date she said I have daddy issues?? Which yes, obviously I do, but Merlin’s hat! What a thing to say! I should probably stop sleeping with her. I have attempted to call things off, but she doesn’t take me seriously. Infuriating! _

_ Now, the thing that Finnagan doesn’t take into account when it comes to distribution of resources within the Ministry is that most of the wizarding population of Britain exists within the surrounds of London, so of course that’s where the support goes. Who lives in northern England?  _ _ Northerners _ _ , that’s who. Not worth regulating. (I am at least thirty per cent joking.) _

_ Your future garden sounds lovely. I have one, but it’s fairly simple. A tree, a small table with two chairs, lawn. There’s some orchids and violets out the front. I’ve thought about doing more, but it’s nice enough for Sophie and I to sit in during summer and what more could I want? I suppose I should get another chair, for the dreaded inclusion of Chelsea. _

_ It sounds like you’ll have been busy. How frequently exactly do you have Teddy? I assume he lives with his grandmother on account of your being barely adult, but will that ever change? My mother has seen through my bringing Teddy up, though it isn’t as though I don’t talk about other things you write me about. She has told me outright that it’s too soon, whatever that means. I tried to press, but she said that as I am an only child I cannot hope to understand. My father says that it’s difficult to resume a relationship that has been damaged for as long as it was whole, but that such an activity would be eased were the parties involved comfortable in themselves. I’ve never thought of my mother as uncomfortable, but I suppose we have fallen quite a ways. _

_ A fact that becomes more and more on my mind as we again draw close to the anniversary of the end of the war. I know it’s still a fortnight away, but apparently my anxiety cannot be put off. I  _ _ know _ _ the day itself is going to be horrible and assume the days around it will be as well, but why on earth do I have to torture myself this far out? I really don’t want to fall into another depression like I did last year. I feel very ashamed when I think of how I behaved then and it scares me that it could just happen to me again. It’s not as though I haven’t had days like that since, even a week here and there where I don’t sleep or eat right and everything feels pointless, but I can handle a week. It’s awful, but I can handle it. I don’t know if I can handle two months.  _

_ Dumbledore gave me an out and I didn’t take it. Several outs, actually, though I only realise looking back that his mysterious words when we happened upon each other in sixth year were outs, if I’d been able to extract my head from my digestive tract long enough to hear him. _

_ That’s what I keep coming back to. That it was a choice and I chose what can only be described as evil. My whole life has been about power and domination. Evil is so  _ _ boring _ _. I’m trying to be better now, but I question that, I question whether I’m genuine about it or if maybe I’ve even fooled myself. Am I just gaining influence over new people? Have I chosen Muggles deliberately to distance myself from the losing side? That’s not even up for debate, of course I have, and it’s already advantaged me in regards to my trial. I don’t want to think of myself as using them, but haven’t I done exactly that? _

_ This is me trusting you with the worst of me again. It’s been two years and I still half-expect that one of these letters will be too much, I’ll be too cocky or too depressing, my only two ways of being, and you’ll be done with me. Which is disgraceful, when you’ve proven over and over the depths of your compassion. I think I’m fishing for reassurance or compliments. How gauche.  _

_ Okay.  _ _ Okay _ _. Enough of that. _

_ How are you, coming up to this awful date? Are you going to speak again? If so, what’s on the menu this year? More hope, peace and love, I assume. You know, I wouldn’t have guessed this, but joining the Aurors seems to have been good for you. Or perhaps you’re not divulging your grotesqueries recently. I hope it’s the former, because you deserve to heal. It is quite honestly bullshit that magic can’t cure that sort of thing. Ah well, there’s always Sainsbury’s. _

_ Oh, that’s probably why I’m a dejected arsehole, I haven’t been to the hallowed halls of the local supermarket in over a week. I’ve been eating with my parents more and more and the food I bought whenever it was has been safely under Stasis Charms. Not as good as just eating the damn stuff before it needs saving, but we take what we can get. Admittedly, Sainsbury’s has lost some of its excitement. I know what most of the items are, even when they bring in new things. I’m going to go now and see what I can get as a treat. _

_ Socks, it turns out. With bananas on them. They’re awful, but not nearly as bad as the underwear with a picture of an elephant, in which the trunk was a kind of pocket in which to store one’s equipment. I wish it didn’t exist. I wish I didn’t own it. I didn’t buy it, before you go judging me too harshly. Dave decided it was the kind of thing I would like, given my proclivity for sampling the various delights Sainsbury’s has to offer. I should just throw them away. I should send them to  _ _ you _ _ , as proof of my suffering.  _

_ Well endowedly, _

_ Draco _

7th May, 2000

Draco,

Thank you for making me read that sign off phrase. Did you know that you’re my most linguistically horrifying friend? The mental image nearly turned me straight.

Biggest news first: I’m an uncle! Kind of. Fleur had her daughter, anyway. I’ve been introduced to her as Uncle Harry and I’m going to own it, damn it! Her name is Victoire and she was born on the 2nd of May, while most of us were at the  fucking anniversary celebrations. Which wasn’t a terrible thing because it meant we didn’t crowd them right after, I guess. I’ve seen the baby three times and I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of her.  So beautiful. I took Teddy to see her yesterday and he was fascinated. 

I can’t believe you put so much effort into this book. I was curious, but a few months ago I was oblivious to the book’s existence, clearly I could manage without it. Anyway, the fact that it’s code rather than language helped, because I work with Aurors, so I took it to Evelyn, who sent me to Spence, a guy who specialises in this stuff. He cracked it, but he said it wasn’t easy so don’t feel bad that you didn’t get it. He didn’t bother explaining it to me, just made a duplicate with it solved.

It’s Regulus’s diary. It goes from when he finished Hogwarts to when he died. Even with the coded characters, he used coded language, so he never referred to Voldemort or anything related to him outright. It’s pretty obvious that it’s him he’s talking about when he says “Basilisk”. It’s also pretty obvious that the title was meant in great respect at the beginning of the diary. He really believed it all, but he was genuinely appalled with how Voldemort treated his house elf, it shook his beliefs really hard. When he found out that Voldemort had hidden a Horcrux, it destroyed the last of his loyalty. I knew this, kind of. It’s different to read it. 

Over those last months, he thought a lot about Sirius. He’d saved the camera years before, not really sure why he did. But all the stuff Sirius used to say (and  Merlin , the things he used to say, and  in this house , I’ve met his mum’s portrait) started to make sense in a way it never had. It’s kind of horrifying. The things he says before he lost faith, even some of the things after, it’s really confronting. I don’t know how you combat this kind of thinking. The things that I thought were really obvious arguments for our side, if anything they pushed Regulus away more. And I really thought it was all motivated by hate, but he loved his family. Our side stole his brother, who did everything he could to make his parents miserable, every time he heard our side talk about living alongside Muggles as equals, he  heard them saying “get rid of pure-blood shit, burn the traditions, I’m glad your cousin is in Azkaban, kill anyone who questions this”. I can’t wrap my head around it. I’m going to, though. I’m an Auror. I can use this.

I guess this kind of relates to what you were saying about your own morality. He took the Mark at sixteen as well. You’re not evil, Draco. And you’re not taking advantage of Sophie and the others, fucking hell, you love her so much. I know, not romantically, but you know that’s not all there is. And I’m not leaving, idiot. I don’t care if you’re fishing, I’ll tell you that you’re my friend and you do good as much as you need. All we can do is be kind and you are, even if you’re also a snark-monster. Which, by the way, you usually do because you’re trying to cheer your friends up. If this is your worst, if this is the blackness in your heart, I can tell you unequivocally that I’ve read worse in this war hero’s diary, that I saw worse last Tuesday, that I could never for a second think you were capable of murder, not even when I hated you worse than Voldemort (you were so much easier to hate, you were real and I wasn’t scared of you). And right now, the fact that I hated you feels so distant. How could I hate you when you’re . . . you.

You have to forgive me for getting all sentimental there. It’s less painful for me to talk about my feelings than it is to imagine you hurting, or thinking these things and not having anyone tell you that it’s just your brain being cruel to you. I’m here, okay? And with that, I’m drawing a line under the hard stuff and just enjoying your company.

I haven’t touched the camera in a month. Gardening is hard. Photography is hard. If I try to do both at the same time, I’ll fail even worse than I am presently. Did you know you can over-water plants? They  need water, what kind of bullshit is that?

I’m not going to insist you’re in love with Natalia because that’s just a really annoying thing that people do, but do you actually hear yourself? I’m making a bet with myself that you’ve seen her again since you last wrote. You know what would really piss her off? If you called her your girlfriend. That she said you have daddy issues is so funny to me. I should have thought of that at Hogwarts. 

I have Teddy Saturday afternoons, only a little bit to give Andromeda a break. They also come over for one evening during most weeks, kind of selfishly of me because it’s easier for me to not leave my house. And none of us have to cook here, so it makes sense. I’m not going to steal him from Andromeda, even though I’d quit my job in an instant if Teddy needed me to. I’m young, yeah, but so were my parents, lots of people our age do it. I’m just . . . Andromeda’s more stable. And she knows what she’s doing and she’s family and it works the way it is. I wouldn’t have been able to look after him right after the war ended and she could, even though she’d lost all her family.

I’m sorry that your mum can’t bring herself to reunite with Andromeda now. I don’t really get it, in my experience it’s better to just put yourself out there and hope they’ll meet you half way. Especially for us, we’ve seen how fragile life is. But I guess I can’t relate to the intensity of the relationship or the intensity of the separation. You can’t rush recovery, as Hermione is always telling me. So, yeah. I’ll help in whatever way I can if she changes her mind.

Okay, so, the anniversary. You get the papers. You probably know the gist of what I said at least. Honestly, you should just keep the crossword page and throw the rest out. I guess it was fine.

I couldn’t muster up the same passion as last year. I’ve been struggling with that in general, but in terms of something like this, where I just want everyone to move on already . . . Hermione says what I really want is for me to move on already. Projection. Anyway, I just read out the speech she wrote for me last year and people were understandably disappointed. It looked like I didn’t care, probably because I didn’t really.

The Auroring has been good for me in a lot of ways, but I’m tired out. I’m forcing my way through it, because what else can I do? But I fall asleep on the couch most nights after work and I sleep through my alarm half the days (I now have three and Kreacher is instructed to pour water on me if I sleep through my third, which has so far been motivation enough to get up to one of them. And I’m doing the gardening because I really want it to work out, but that’s physically tiring as well and it’s just a lot. I think it’ll be established enough for me to let it do its own thing soon. 

I’m not letting it affect Teddy days, even though I yawn a lot and I hate that. The fact that I do make an effort for him makes me feel a bit less useless.

Oh, and if that wasn’t enough, I’ve come down with asthma. It’s all the pollen around, thanks spring. I’ve got a daily potion to try and help with the allergy side of things and a Muggle ventilator for the actual asthma part because I can’t take more than a certain amount of the potion with my being an Auror. It’s scary, not being able to breathe. It’s worse than when I’m just out of breath or whatever, because it comes on for no reason when I’m just sitting there. Taking the ventilator and sitting still for a bit makes it go away though, and it’s never been serious enough for me to think I’d be compromised at all if I were on a mission. 

I thought I’d gotten past the description of your underwear the first time I read this part, but it’s not something you can get used to. Despite the fact that I can absolutely picture them with disturbing clarity, I kind of want to see them. But I also want you to own them. I want my mental picture of you to include the fact that you own underwear in which your penis can pretend it’s an elephant. 

Hermione starts her N.E.W.T examinations at the end of the month. She’s refusing to see us or write to us because she’s organised a study schedule down to the minute and she needs every one of them. She sent us a copy in explanation and I have never been so glad I dropped out, because she would absolutely want me to do this too. She’s obviously going to ace everything, but I worry about her. Lots of pressure, you know? At least we’ll have her home soon.

Not much else is happening, mostly because I talked about a lot of what I’ve been doing when replying to your bits and also because I’m sleeping through most of my free time. I hope you appreciate that I’m writing to you over sleeping. It’s a pretty big compliment right now.

Asthmatically,

Harry

_ 29th May, 2000 _

_ Harry, _

_ Congratulations on your uncledom. And to the Weasleys, though I don’t think they need to hear that from me.  _

_ I’m pleased you appreciate the effort I put into our interactions. I didn’t end up throwing away the underwear because I forgot about it, but as you insist I keep them, perhaps this was for the best. I’m sure the only purpose they will serve is alarming me ever so often when I see them in my drawer. _

_ I think I’m glad that you got the translation. Part of me is miffed that I couldn’t solve it and part of me has some kind of associated shame from your reading a story that contains parallels to my own. But it’s another connection to your godfather and, as you say, it will help you as an Auror.  _

_ I don’t know if there’s a fix either. I don’t know what someone could have said to me to change my mind, not at any point before the end of the war. I say the following in the hopes it offers you some insight. _

_ As a child, I accepted the pure-blood ideology without question. It was the only perspective I heard, except when an adult would remark on the absurdity of such-and-such law that disadvantaged wizards in the name of “the Muggle lovers”. I remember vividly my father saying to me, “Would you outlaw this, Draco?” and enchanting a mirror so that it shouted “boo” at me and gave me a fright, which I found very funny once I’d gotten over the surprise. I said “no” and he said, “See, even a child understands.” Or he’d be telling me a story about Slytherin or something and he’d sigh, say, “This is important for you to know. Some people who go to Hogwarts won’t know any of this because they’ll have been raised by  _ _ Muggles _ _ ” (and the way he said it made it sound like “animals”). “I wish I could send you to Durmstrang. I wish they wouldn’t let the mongrels in. It’s not fair to them either, to be so far behind and beneath you.” So it all seemed common sense. I knew other people thought different, but I also “knew” that those people were stupid and misinformed. _

_ When I grew up enough to have my own opinions, I hated your lot so much. You and I, that was practically written as law and I don’t think I have to explain all the reasons I had. I hated Weasley just because he was your best friend, though I might have anyway because of the traditional hatred between our families. “Oh yes, the Weasleys love Muggles, they’re  _ _ progressive _ _ , aren’t they? Interesting how their blood is as pure as ours, but no one will ever criticise the beloved Weasleys.” I thought that with absolutely zero irony. My lot were so convinced that we were the persecuted ones. And I hated Granger for her blood, obviously, but more because she outperformed me in every single fucking class.  _

_ Once I had gotten in too far, I couldn’t think any further than the next action because to contemplate failing  _ _ or _ _ succeeding in my plans was unbearable, because I had no idea what came after that mission and desperately didn’t want to know, because I was scared I would die and scared I would survive . . . No, I couldn’t even have been reached then. If you had burst into the Manor on your own feet, taken out all the Death Eaters and told me you were saving me, that I could go with you and be safe, I wouldn’t have followed you. Not because I wanted to stay, not even because I once hated you, but because I knew I was trapped and I feared even  _ _ thinking _ _ in case I drew attention to myself. I wanted to fade into nothing and the best I could do was to not act unless something was demanded of me. _

_ I needed the war to end, I needed to see him die with my own two eyes. I needed to see my parents just get on with things so that I could imagine myself getting on with things too.  _

_ I don’t know how you reach people who are still believing those things even though the war is over. I suppose that’s what you Aurors try to figure out. _

_ I really appreciate what you said about me in your last letter. You’re a good friend. And with that, I’ll draw my own line under this. I can’t tell you how important it is to me that we can talk about this and not have it be the only thing we talk about. I think I’d dread these letters if they only felt like they were performing the probably necessary task of drawing the poison from my foundations. But all that messy healing bullshit is surrounded with other things. And usually we’re much more cheery than this. Shall we go back to that for a few letters? May is basically over, we can be done with looking backwards for a bit. You know what, don’t even respond to all that part. Just take whatever you can for your cause. _

_ I  _ _ have _ _ seen Natalia since I last wrote, but I swear I’m finished with her now. Not in the same way that I said probably four times previously to the last time. The arguing and then shagging was the kind of fun that I couldn’t admit I liked. I’m a romantic, I like to think I’m a gentleman, but she got under my skin and it was very satisfying to be made really, properly angry (hands shaking, face flushed, snapping without thinking) and then have all that tension completely used up by  _ _ really _ _ good sex. But then I went and started liking her, smiling at her when she was trying to argue with me and sometimes even agreeing with her. Then I asked her out again after one of our sessions instead of telling her to get lost in whatever very creative way I’d thought up in advance and basically now I’m repulsive to her. _

_ I’m not unhurt. Not quite fun to put yourself out there and then be pushed back, not just to the point you were at before, but well, well back, until you’re out of sight entirely. Chelsea has actually been my greatest comfort. Sophie was full of, “I just knew you were going to get hurt” and “It wasn’t a nice relationship”, which, yes, but also please don’t. Dave is allergic to feelings, Faizan has been mysteriously missing (perhaps taking her side? Perhaps just has spent too much time here recently instead of at school?) and I didn’t have high hopes for Chelsea, but she’s actually been an angel. Mostly we’ve been watching the television show Charmed (which is about witches and therefore should be hilarious but I’m actually really invested) and bitching about Natalia and also literally everything else that there is to bitch about.  _

_ Your speech at the anniversary was fine. Though the papers commented on you reading from cards, it was one or two sentences in the entire thing. Stop being dramatic. _

_ Maybe when things quiet down you’ll recover some of that energy. It’s not that long ago you were running for fun. Have some Pepper-Up, you could have a flu that’s not presenting other symptoms. Except for the allergy thing, which again corresponds with my flu theory. Maybe I should be a Healer, I’m clearly a natural. Have you got that garden sorted out then? We’re starting to get some more sun, maybe that’s what you need.  _

_ By now, Granger will have finished her N.E.W.T.s and presumably is going to spend the next month driving herself and you crazy as she waits for results. What does she want to do once she’s undoubtedly got herself twenty million Os? _

_ What else can I tell you about? The Manor is mostly back to its usual state of being full of rooms where everything is covered in white sheets instead of being full of rooms where the walls are warped with curses whose effects we did not trust to remain dormant. My parents have therefore said good enough, so I have more free time. They’re applying for a travel permit for us to spend a month in France, which I’m going along with because I have no reason not to, the weather will be lovely and I haven’t been since I was thirteen. It may not happen, but I think I’m looking forward to it.  _

_ Last time we went, things were tense for some reason that I most definitely did not ask about, so my mother stayed by the beach the whole time and my father did the museums and having meals with people I assume were important and such. I alternated between the two approaches. I think things will be more unified this time, they’re in each other’s pockets now. I’m going to practice day drinking and beach reading. So yes, choose an owl that’s happy with international delivery for your next reply, just in case. _

_ Anticipatorially, _

_ Draco _

18th June, 2000

Draco,

I know I already said it in the card, but happy birthday. How’d you spend it? Were you in France/are you there now?

You make it difficult not to reply to your thoughts on all that dark stuff, but I’m kind of glad to have the excuse to not try to have the “right” response. Is this responding? Fuck, pretend I didn’t say anything.

That sucks about Natalia. I guess there’s something to be said for passion, but that sounds kind of insane. Well shot of her, mate. What a cow. I don’t really know how to bitch with you, but it sounds like Chelsea has it covered.

I can’t believe you’re telling  me to stop being dramatic. You know how ridiculous that is, right? In your first letter to me you told me that you were going to brag so much to your parents that they’d shoot you into the stars. Your  first letter. You didn’t even wait for me to get used to the idea of you. But I will  graciously not dwell on my shitty performance at the anniversary thing on your advice. I’m kind of over it now anyway. 

Pepper-Up is not working, but the garden is sorted and my boss has dropped my case load a bit until we figure this out. I think the sun is helping. The garden was kind of annoying me because it had been a chore, but now that it’s done it’s nice to sit out there, especially now that Hermione’s home and we can just spend afternoons talking about whatever. 

She got seven N.E.W.T.s, all Os except for an E in Herbology which she says she took a calculated hit in so that she would get an O in Defence Against the Dark Arts, because can you imagine if she didn’t ace that? It’s basically unheard of for anyone to perform that well, obviously there are people who take five or more N.E.W.T.s, but they accept they’re going broad and get lesser marks. Barty Crouch got As on eleven of his twelve N.E.W.T.s and “numerology is basically an easier version of arithmancy, so it doesn’t make sense for them to have different exams” according to Hermione.

It’s so good to have her back. I didn’t realise how much I’d missed her, really. Like I knew I was missing her, but when she came home and I knew it was  properly this time, it was so different from seeing her at Quidditch games or Hogsmeade. Not that we’d seen her for over a month anyway because of N.E.W.T.s. She just makes the house feel whole, you know?

In fact, as I write this I have Crookshanks purring on my lap and am listening to Ron and Hermione argue about whether the movie we watched last night (Face Off) was good or not. Hermione points out that it made no logical sense, that John Travolta’s wife should have realised that his body and mannerisms were different, that the face stroking thing was weird and that the final action scene with the speed boats was the most ridiculous thing she’s ever seen and it managed to ruin the credibility of a movie that she thought she had given up on making sense. Ron points out that he has never enjoyed a movie more, that realism isn’t possible in any movie and it definitely wasn’t attempted in this one. I don’t know who is right or if I loved it or hated it, it’s a really confusing movie. Like, not in terms of plot, it’s very much not confusing in terms of plot. Face Swap is a movie where they swap faces, that’s the whole thing. It’s just emotionally confusing because you’re left wondering if this was written by someone who took it seriously.

Hermione is going to work at the Ministry, Department of something something Magical Creatures. She’s cared about house-elf and werewolf rights for years and magical creatures’ rights in general, really. I swear, every time we encountered a creature she was considering its happiness and how wizards treat them. She’ll be amazing and they definitely need her, Aurors are being requisitioned by that department all the time. There’s been a huge spike of unregistered werewolves, some of them Muggles, almost all of them were turned by or for Greyback, for his personal war against the Ministry and for Voldemort, and they think they’ll be killed brutally by anyone who knows they’re a werewolf. Then there’s the Dementors, who Kingsley cut ties with immediately after the war but who are still around and there’s some trolls that are basically being the worst. And she literally has ideas for all these problems, I complain about work and she just starts citing legislation at me and telling me how she would do it differently to fix everything. She’s going to put me out of a job and I love it.

Or that portion of it anyway. We’ve got other problems apart from creatures. There’s a lot of people who went underground with their businesses during the war and found out that not paying tax or meeting industry wage requirements and scarcity of options was really good for business, and being caught by our Ministry is less scary than being caught by Voldemort, so some of them are still operating. They’re more expensive, but they allow loans at a ridiculous interest rate so people who are broke after the war are being exploited. It’s a shitshow. Anyway, enough work talk, it’s depressing.

I’ve just gotten back from Sunday lunch at The Burrow. It was a full house for the first time in ages because Charlie’s visiting. Well, almost full house. I think we were all conscious of the metaphorical empty chair. It was good despite that, though. Ron spiked the drinks with a potion he and George had invented that made our words come out as singing, which had some very mixed results. I am  not a good singer.

Victoire is not as well behaved as Teddy, though of course she is  very little and honestly we were spoilt with him. I have to hand it to Bill and Fleur, they both look exhausted but they never hesitate to go and settle her and won’t say a word against being parents apart from to remark on the lost sleep with a bit of a smile. Bill actually fell asleep on the couch after lunch and no one disturbed him. Victoire was passed around between all of us, except for George who Teddy has claimed as his favourite this week. (We’re making an effort to make sure Teddy doesn’t feel left out.) 

George is a frequent favourite of Teddy’s, though I’m beating him on that front (thank Merlin) and Molly is neck and neck. George makes up a lot of silly games, so it’s pretty easy to see why. Today he found out why he shouldn’t play airplane with Teddy immediately after eating. Airplane is where George lies on his back, balances Teddy’s stomach on his feet and holds his hands as he zooms him around. Teddy threw up all over him. While George's mouth was open. It’s honestly amazing that George was able to put him down as gently as he always does. 

It was an amazing day to have a bit of a play with a Quaffle too, we even got Hermione on a broom. Teddy likes to ride on mine with me because I can go higher and faster than his toy broom (though obviously I keep it much safer than I usually do when he’s my passenger). His hair flicks through the whole rainbow when he flies, it’s amazing. 

I hope this finds you in France, full of wine and cheese and culture. Say hi to the Eiffel Tower for me. Fleur says there’s a wizarding village called Blanc near Languedoc that is stunning and that going there will make your soul feel beautiful. I think she would have told me a lot more about France if it wasn’t such a hectic day. The only thing I’ve learned about France from years of knowing Fleur is that I cannot pronounce Bonjour to save my life. I copy her exactly, I don’t hear what I’m doing wrong at all. I don’t even attempt the rest of the language. It sounds amazing when she sings to Victoire though.

Francophilically,

Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END NOTES: Fun fact! I thought my panic attacks were asthma for like two years before I got on medication that eased my anxiety!


	9. 2000 - July - 2001 - January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a slight hiccup in this exchanging letters thing, but Draco makes it work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I didn’t mention this in the last chapter and I don’t particularly know why I’m mentioning it now, but it bothers me so much that Hermione took seven N.E.W.T subjects when Percy got 12 perfect N.E.W.T.s, it makes no sense. They gave her a time turner in 3rd year because she was so promising and then this nonsense? And I know I didn’t even give her perfect scores, I basically did that because taking a hit in one subject is a difficult choice that most people have to make and I thought it was a good idea at the time, but literally whenever I write about the Hogwarts timetabling I get cross. Someone give McGonagall a raise, her workload is literally impossible. 
> 
> Rant over, this could not be less relevant to the story I’m telling! Back to the slowburn. 

_ 18th July, 2000 _

_ Harry, _

_ Yes, I am in France! I was for my birthday as well, which was a fairly quiet affair. I celebrated by going out for a nice dinner with my parents. I got asked for ID when I ordered a wine. In  _ _ France _ _. I am not yet at an age where this assumption of youth is a compliment. But then they saw that it was my birthday and we received a round of drinks on the house, which was kind of them. My mother got tipsy, which was hilarious. She rarely drinks as she’s on a potion that exacerbates the effects. She becomes affectionate, which is both lovely and mortifying.  _

_ You are  _ _ terrible _ _ at bitching, but you’re right that I already have it in hand. Besides, I have done some very cinematic moping around Paris. I smoked half a cigarette and nearly threw up. Now I’m basically done with that, so I think I might have a fling while I’m here. My torso is so white it’s practically reflective, perhaps I’ll attract someone like a fish with shiny scales. I went outside without Sun-Protection Potion for only a minute and my nose went pink for days, so now I put it on immediately after I shower and if I return with any colour, it will be sourced from a cauldron. No, I won’t do that, I would look ridiculous with a tan. Don’t even imagine it, I forbid you. _

_ We had dinner with Blaise and his mother last week. I know you haven’t had much to do with Blaise because he was more sensible than any of us and he stayed off your radar. He told me once that he saw how quickly Severus and I prejudiced you against Slytherin and decided that he wasn’t getting any favours from you no matter how pretty he was, so he aimed for neutrality instead and gave his attention elsewhere.  _

_ You actually did come up in conversation. Only because Blaise asked me if I was in touch with anyone from school, to which I replied that I was not, because you and Blaise were worlds apart as I’ve just said and therefore you don’t count, but my father laughed and asked if I was no longer corresponding with you and did this mean he wouldn’t have to hear about it anymore. (In a nice way, or nice-adjacent. All teasing was directed at me. I honestly don’t think I bring you up that often, but when I expressed this,  _ _ both _ _ my parents laughed. Yay.) Anyway, Blaise was very interested in this because he smelled an in, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you happen to bump into him at some point. Do  _ _ not _ _ give him reason to suspect you could be interested in him if  _ _ at all _ _ possible. I know he’s very charming and good looking and he can ask for the time and make it sound like the filthiest come on in the world, but he’s his mother’s son and I had to come up with a mnemonic song to memorise all the husbands she’s had who have died and left her their fortunes.  _

_ His moves are effective enough on me, honestly, I can’t imagine what they must be like for someone who could be interested in him that way. When he leans in close he makes me feel like the two of us are in an extraordinary and exclusive club and if I gossip with him then I’ll be his favourite person, and there’s something about him that makes that a very desirable position. I think I’d go to very far lengths for his approval, as would every other one of our housemates and probably anyone who spends more than a sentence in his company.  _

_ Though, I must clarify, I do have limits. And I kept a very firm leash on what I told him of our letters, even though I pretended I was giving it all away and even though he got me to say more than I planned. I told him about your doing up a London townhouse, but not that it was the Black one, because he’d contrive to find you. I told him that you talk about your godson a lot, which he could have gotten from reading Witch Weekly. I told him that we talk about movies and books and that we avoid the difficult topics of the war and how we used to be with one another as much as possible, which is true, though admittedly it does come up more than that statement implied. _

_ Of course, he doesn’t let you feel like he’s taking advantage, so he stopped asking questions before I could become uncomfortable in any way and turned the conversation onto other things. It was a nice night, once I stopped feeling on guard. I’ve owled him to meet up again while I’m here, but I’m not optimistic. He is always just slightly unavailable, just enough so that you feel grateful for his attention when you do get it. Good grief I sound snippish. I get like this when I see him. I understand what he does because I’ve never been as good at it as him and I’m a bit jealous, which I’m not so small as to deny.  _

_ Congratulate Granger on her N.E.W.T.s, she’s very impressive. I’m sure she’ll do excellent work at the Ministry. And tell her she’s right about Face Off, it’s an atrocious film. Nicolas Cage alarms me. I can’t believe I watched that for you. You’ve lost points with Sophie and Chelsea too, though Dave liked it. He almost never watches films, but when he does he enjoys them indiscriminately.  _

_ My father says your problem with the unauthorised businesses is because taxes are too high, but he’s always of that opinion. He thinks that if taxes are lower then businesses can flourish and therefore afford to pass that wealth on to employees. I thought the same until Sophie and Dave got into some kind of argument where they were both on the same side complaining about this kind of attitude. You see, Sophie is paid quite well because the woman who owns the garden centre is a local and a very lovely lady who genuinely does follow that business model in which profits are passed on to employees, and people who do gardening are generally willing to pay for it. Dave is paid poorly because Sainsbury’s is a chain who do  _ _ not _ _ care (despite my deep affection for them) and they’re able to sell their products very cheap because they buy in bulk, which means local grocers can’t compete, and they don’t even pass those savings on to their employees, they just have an ultra rich CEO. Of course I will never ever say anything like this to my father, as I value my life and my inheritance. It rarely comes up. Never talk money, Harry, it’s just not worth it. _

_ I gagged reading about G. Weasley’s—Morgana, that doesn’t even work! George’s, then—misfortune with Teddy. And now there’s two of them! I suppose this is a benefit to you. Do you want children of your own? That’s possibly more personal than we usually go. And it’s made me ask myself the same question, which I wasn’t anticipating on a Tuesday afternoon.  _

_ I think . . . yes? In the future, when I’m settled and I know what I’m doing and I have a wife who loves me and knows what she’s doing. Goodness gracious, who the fuck would want to marry me? I’m not fishing for compliments this particular time, I know you would snog a Manticore to get a shot with me, I’m just saying. No, I’ve found friends. I can find a wife. Maybe she’s here in France, ready to be charmed by the way I fuck up la and le for half the words because I’m really just taking a stab in the dark every time. I usually try and make a vague ‘l’ noise. I’d appreciate it if all the words were gendered the same in French, Italian and German. There’s three in German! _

_ The Eiffel Tower and Blanc both pass on their regards to you. I conversed at length with the Eiffel Tower until my mother dragged me away for making a scene, which I wasn’t even. But then she took me to a cafe where we had wine and cheese so I forgave her.  _

_ My goodness this is a long letter. My hand is cramping and I thought I’d read this novel I found for two Euros. It has a woman in a slip pressed against a man’s bare chest and is called In Bed With His Rival. It sounds and looks saucy. Pansy used to have books like these and we’d read them out to the whole common room. My performances were the best, obviously. _

_ Dramatically, _

_ Draco _

  
  


_ 28th August, 2000 _

_ Harry, _

_ This is a bit long for you to have not replied, though I am aware that you haven’t exactly been bursting with energy lately. It’s just strange to have not heard from you and I thought I might as well write in case one of us has missed an owl or just to check in. I don’t mind if you’ve just been busy, obviously, but I suppose I’ve gotten used to receiving these letters more frequently.  _

_ I’m back home and things are normal-adjacent. I received a letter from Pansy, as if absolutely nothing had happened and we talk all the time. She just told me about the fashion in America and this man she’s seeing and thinking of breaking up with. She mentioned Blaise, so I suppose he must have told her that we talked and encouraged this somehow. I’ve missed her, so it was nice to hear from her, but on another level I’m not sure that I’m ready for her. I can’t quite explain what I mean there, just that it’s pushing me somewhat out of my comfort zone and I felt almost as nervous replying to her as I did to you the first time. My life has changed so much since we were friends.  _ _ I _ _ have. What if she hates who I am now? She could have liked me for my cruelty, I think I reminded her of her father and I certainly wouldn’t now. _

_ Sophie is trying to persuade me to get a job. She knows I don’t need the money, but she thinks it’s bad for me to spend my days reading and watching films and waiting for my friends to be available. She may be right, I’m not sure. I possibly just need some more friends, some who are free during the day. I like entertaining very much. _

_ I haven’t mentioned this to my parents yet. I think it may be a step too far. Malfoys don’t work. But being a Malfoy is usually a full-time job and it simply isn’t now. I’m going to think on it, but I don’t hold out hope that I will have decided by your next letter, so your input is valued.  _

_ Not much is happening apart from that. Dave had a girlfriend for three days, but I never met her. It ended when he found out that she supports Manchester United, which may not have been a dealbreaker, but then Manchester United won a game and she gloated and he just ended things. I would have thought meeting someone with the same passion would be a positive, even if there were rivalries to consider, but oh well. _

_ This is a short letter, but I don’t know what else to put in it. I’d be more concerned over your absence if I hadn’t seen a picture of you in the Prophet last week. Teddy has grown a lot since he last got caught by them. Still, I hope this finds you well. _

_ Missing you-ly, _

_ Draco _

  
  


3rd September, 2000

Draco,

This is Hermione Granger. Please don’t panic, because there’s nothing to panic about, but Harry is not quite well at the moment. He got hit by a nasty curse about a month ago; you may have read in the papers that he was overnight at St Mungos. Well, his speedy recovery and subsequent return to work is slightly exaggerated. By which I mean that Ron has been taking Polyjuice every morning, replicating Harry’s morning run to work and then Disapparating from the D.M.L.E to go about his day and occasionally an Auror will Polyjuice as Harry so that he’s seen on the job.

He’s out of St Mungos now and resting at home. The curse seems to have affected Harry worse than expected, but he’s certainly able to be at home and without nurses bothering him. I’m looking after him, which mostly involves keeping him entertained and making sure he eats.

He is genuinely sorry that he hasn’t replied to your owls, but his primary difficulty is that he’s hazy, so focusing long enough to write hasn’t been possible. I’m to tell you that he has been on three excursions and one of them has been to  ~~ the supermarket ~~ a Sainsbury’s, and apparently I’m to be precise about which kind, for heaven’s sake. I assume this has some significance. 

You’re not to visit or to do anything special, he is quite fed up of everyone fussing. If I thought there was anything to be properly concerned about, I would tell you.

Regards,

Hermione Granger

  
  


_ 5th September, 2000 _

_ Granger, _

_ Thank you for letting me know. Please keep me updated on any developments as you see fit. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ DM _

  
  


_ 21st September, 2000 _

_ Harry, _

_ I don’t know if you’re up to reading my usual letters, as I can admit I am quite verbose. I also don’t know if perhaps this is being read  _ _ to _ _ you by your loyal handmaid, so I’ll be on my best behaviour. I thought that perhaps you might like some entertainment. Tell me to bugger off, if you must. _

_ Pansy invited herself to the Manor for tea a few days ago, which greatly alarmed my parents who are under the mistaken impression that the place is not suitable for guests despite it being in quite good repair now. They were especially alarmed because she basically just showed up and they’d prefer to have the full service, but also would prefer to host and we don’t have any elves. They ended up “letting us catch up in peace”, which was their way of excusing their absence as they prepared things.  _

_ Pansy is well. She liked my Muggle clothes and was in fact wearing a dress rather than robes. Apparently robes aren’t often done as everyday-wear in San Francisco, which is where she’s living at the moment. She likes this as a trend because she has exceptional calves and has always felt that it’s a shame how robes cover up shoes.  _

_ She had much more interesting gossip than me, seeing as my life takes place in a little town in which I have a handful of friends who don’t care for parties very much. She is very proudly bisexual, which is very fashionable in San Francisco and besides allows her to get into drama with all people regardless of their gender. She thinks she might get into some drama over here and we perused Witch Weeklys for a couple of hours choosing who is attractive and also scandalous enough for her. Thankfully she deemed that you were unlikely to fall for her wiles regardless of the loveliness of her calves due to your history, so I didn’t have to reveal any personal information to dissuade her. She’s not here for long, so she can cause a stir and then disappear, which is the best kind of stir. It was more fun than I have had in a very long while. _

_ She’s in contact with a few other people from school as well and will be visiting them while she’s in Europe. We have not talked about the war even once and are just pretending that she lives in America for the adventure and I live in the Muggle world because it suits me. I am not brave enough to do anything different. I am also not brave enough to introduce her to my friends, though she says that she socialises with Muggles all the time and wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise the Statute of Secrecy.  _

_ Well, that’s probably a long enough letter for your circumstances. I hope Granger is taking good care of you. _

_ Socially, _

_ Draco _

28th September, 2000

Draco,

Hermione Granger again. Harry would like me to pass on his gratitude for your letter and to inform you that he intends to respond to all of them in a “super, mega letter” once he has recovered. He’s also reading them himself, so you don’t need to worry about privacy, if that was a concern.

He isn’t worse. The Healers say that there is no sign of spell damage on him anymore. I think that he is shaken from being seriously injured on the job. Of course he has been injured before, but it’s rarely been long-lasting and has more often been linked to a broomstick than malicious intent. 

Regards,

Hermione Granger

  
  


_ 5th October, 2000 _

_ Granger, _

_ I appreciate the update. I hope you are well. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ DM _

  
  


_ 31st October, 2000 _

_ Harry, _

_ I’m thinking of you today. I hope you’re okay. I don’t really know what else to say. My mother has a book on polite things to say for just about every occasion, which I haven’t used since I had to write thank you notes for seventeenth presents, which were not abundant given the circumstances but there were a few people pretending normalcy so there were enough to be getting on with. Anyway, the point is that there  _ _ is _ _ actually a chapter on condolences and even difficult anniversaries, but none of them are perfect and I feel awkward consulting a book for this. Still: May memories of your parents and the love of family surround you and give you strength in the days ahead. That one’s quite nice.  _

_ I’m reflecting on our friendship because of thinking of you, which is something I’m sometimes guilty of taking for granted. I think I told you once that Pansy has always been my best friend, and obviously I have Sophie now, but even with them I don’t think I’ve had anything like this. I've had the occasional emotionally honest conversation at night where we try to work through something or other by talking about it, but not this.  _

_ I was always very guarded with Pansy. I could trust her with such and such about my parents, probably, and only because she was there for some of it and she reciprocated, but when I was at my worst . . . well, you know, don’t you? I talked to a ghost about my genuine fears rather than trust the living. And Sophie’s wonderful, but I  _ _ can’t _ _ talk about some things. Magic is a very large part of my life and I daren’t step out of line, given the fact that I think any slip up on her side that required your lot to come around and Obliviate people would hit my probated arse rather harder than it would just about anyone else. I’ve told you things I can’t imagine telling anyone else. _

_ Anyway, the point of this is to thank you. Without my usual nonsense for a change, charming though that is. And to let you know that I hope you recover soon, for entirely selfish reasons, but that I’ll wait for the shortest letter for you for however long it takes. You don’t have to respond to anything I’ve said, that may be too much pressure and I don’t want to ever put any on you; you’ve more than had enough.  _

_ Warmest, _

_ Draco _

29th November, 2000

Draco,

Thanks for your letters, especially that last one, which was embarrassingly soppy. Meant a lot. I’m healthy now, better than I was before the curse. They think I had some prior condition and it didn’t mix well with the curse. Just took rest, I guess. 

France sounds fun, maybe I’ll go sometime. Maybe we’ll go together so I can have a translator. I don’t like how Lingua charms buzz, you know? Fleur tells me that most people in Paris at least can speak a bit of English, but it might be nice to have company anyway. Your company. Because you know the place. I know we don’t do that though, so maybe not.

Did you end up having a fling? From how you talked about Blaise, I wouldn’t be that surprised if you did with him. Joking. I don’t mind that you talked about me but I’m glad that I don’t have to worry about some headline about my sexuality right now. It’ll happen at some point, but maybe not when I’m still getting used to normal life again.

Interesting point and counterpoint about taxes. It’s always the big businesses who complain, isn’t it? I’m glad that’s not my department. I think we need taxes right now, with all the war recovery stuff still going on, but I’m sure there’s a lot of pressure from the other direction. 

Yeah, I love having Teddy and Victoire around. I feel bad that I missed some time there when they’re so young and changing so much. But Victoire’s still too young to notice and she prefers to sit on her mat than be held by anyone, anyway. Teddy was excited to see me again, which made me feel bad. I’m back to seeing him twice a week and I guess I couldn’t help not being there for a bit. Yeah, I want kids. Probably obvious with how I am with these ones. Not for a while though, got to get my shit sorted. Not surprised you want a wife first. I take it you didn’t find her in France, or you’d have told me.

Thanks for chatting with French landmarks with me. I can’t believe you read those books, though I guess they’re the literary equivalent of the movies you watch so maybe I can. 

Good for you, getting back in touch with Pansy. Hermione told me that she managed to “date” her way through half of the Kenmare Kestrels before she went back to America, so I guess she got her wish in the scandal department. I doubt she liked you for your cruelty. Maybe your humour, which used to be cruel, but you still have that. Did you end up talking about the war? Or get in touch with any other old friends?

Did you end up getting a job? I think it’s a good idea. Maybe you could do something really fun and then your parents wouldn’t care. Acting? Fuck, maybe modelling, you could probably pull that off. I mean, if you still look how you looked. I’m not complimenting you here, I’m just saying, because you can do that haughty thing that models do. Please, Merlin, don’t read into this.

This part has been so full of questions. I don’t know if I have that much to tell you after all that. I’ve mostly been sleeping for actual months. But I used to write when I hadn’t done anything so I guess I’ll give it a shot. 

I watched a shocking amount of movies. I think you’d like The Breakfast Club, which is about teenagers in detention bonding. Makes me wonder if that could have happened with us if we had just written lines in first year instead of being sent into the fucking Forbidden Forrest. Our school was insane. Also When Harry Met Sally, which I actually assume Sophie has already shown you, but maybe not, because you never wrote to tell me and it’s made for you. Fight Club was amazing, I’ve arrested a couple of guys who were clearly unable to deal with not having conflict after the war and it’s interesting to see this sort of forced aggression. The Silence of the Lambs was freaky in a really good way, but I don’t know if you’d like it. It’s about a cannibal. If you’re sticking to romcoms then stick to romcoms, whatever works for you. I also went over your letters and watched everything you’ve mentioned, even though I’d already watched a lot of them when you mentioned them the first time. 

This is short. Compared to your letters, plural. I just don’t have much to say because I’ve been sick. Sorry.

Insufficiently,

Harry

_ 12th December, 2000 _

_ Harry, _

_ I could have kissed Tyton for delivering your letter. It has been too long since I have had the opportunity to crouch over my desk like a demented hawk and attempt to decipher your appalling handwriting. Do you know that sometimes I have to ask Sophie what she thinks a word is? The way I cover up the rest of the letter in case of reference to magic or, heaven forbid,  _ _ feelings _ _ , makes her think that they contain naughty things, which they never do. Unfortunately. Do some more naughty things and report back to me.  _

_ I think I’d like to show you France, but the permit process with my probation is a pain in the arse and I don’t know how we’d get along for any kind of extended period. Perhaps we can start out with coffee, make sure we don’t draw wands at the sight of each other anymore. Though I don’t know if I want that yet either. Do go gentle on me, Potter, this is my first time with a pen pal.  _

_ I would love to tell you that I had  _ _ several _ _ flings, nearly every day with a beautiful French woman on my arm apart from the day when I had a New Zealander on holiday. Unfortunately, I practice honesty with you and I must therefore tell you that I didn’t even get to kiss someone at the Eiffel Tower. Pity me.  _

_ And I  _ _ certainly _ _ didn’t hook up with Blaise. I wouldn’t know what to do with him. He’s so . . . tall. I didn’t hook up with Pansy either, though she tends to offer when she’s bored. That could have been nice, but more likely would lead to at least some awkwardness. And I wouldn’t like to hold my performance up as a comparison to those of professional athletes. I’ve seen the charity poster the Kestrels put out and no, I cannot compete; even the Seeker has more muscle definition than me and she’s tiny.  _

_ We didn’t talk about the war, no. She did attempt to bring it up once, but I just loudly offered her some more wine over the top of her speaking, which did not inspire her to bring it up again, regrettably. And I was too cowardly to. I nearly did, but then I loudly offered myself wine. I acknowledge my absurdities. _

_ I have received a short note from Greg, who is staying with a mutual great aunt in Reykjavik. I didn’t realise she was still alive, to be honest. Anyway, he invited me to visit at my convenience, which I can’t see myself doing in any immediacy. It’s nice to get the offer, as I thought that bridge was forever . . . let’s say crumbled. Theo also wrote, though he told me outright that he thinks I’m a “twatcake” and that he hopes I have a stone perpetually in my left shoe, which made me horrifically paranoid that the letter was cursed. It was not, but I wasted two days looking up minor curses in the library in case I hadn’t used the right detection spells. After all, why curse someone with something that’s quite easily reversible if you can make them waste two days looking for a curse that isn’t there? _

_ Yes, I have a job, but I think it would be a much more rational use of our time to unpack your wording there. I don’t for an instant believe that you merely think my expressions are model worthy, though of course they are. You can tell me  _ _ anything _ _ , after all. I will accept your uncontrollable lust for me with equanimity and grace. We should have known this was inevitable, after all. You have eyes. _

_ My job is not modelling. I am a barista at the local cafe. I can make coffees that have leaves in the foam and flirt with old women, so I’m basically a model employee. That is a pun, and I can hear your laughter from here, perhaps you should tone it down a notch. I am grateful for my accent and general demeanor, because they weren’t surprised when I told them that I don’t know how to clean anything, they assume it was always done for me. I’m learning though, because I like working here and they honestly don’t ask me to do too much in that department. _

_ And I’m glad that I have it at present because Chelsea’s work has taken her to Who-Cares-Where in Lancashire and Sophie has been spending every weekend driving  _ _ hours _ _ to visit her, which is inconceivable to me. Chelsea offered to split it somewhat, but she doesn’t own a car and would be attempting the impossibility of British public transport. I wish the Statute of Secrecy didn’t exist, or was at least more relaxed, then I could Apparate her or maybe set up their Floos.  _

_ In one of her now rare evenings with me (she’s tired during the week now and I can’t blame her), she told me that she’s thinking about proposing.  _ _ Proposing _ _. As in  _ _ marriage. _ _ Terrifying. She is a bit over two years older than you and I, but that’s still very young and while I can’t disapprove of Chelsea any longer and their commitment despite the distance is promising, I can’t help but worry. I tried to be as supportive as I could when she told me, but she called me out on my anxiety and I had to tell her about my concerns. She said that as I had “freaked out” at the fish and chip shop changing the oil they use, she wouldn’t hold this against me.  _

_ Change alarms me. It always has. I’m a bit stuck in my ways and feel more comfortable when there are clear rules, or when I know how I am to act in any given situation. This is not to say that I am unable to improvise, because I can. But I’m just not a fan of not having  _ _ any _ _ idea of how things may go, especially since, well, everything. And I don’t know how the proposal will go or how things will change once they’re engaged  _ _ or _ _ once they’re married. I imagine things will be different somehow. I don’t want Sophie to move away. Dave suggested that it might be easier for her to find casual jobs wherever Chelsea is working rather than drive so much and I  _ _ hate _ _ that idea.  _

_ Anyway, the film thing is one benefit to your time recuperating. You know that you could have listed every one you watched and I would be entertained, don’t you? Dave tried to get me to watch Gone in 60 Seconds, which if you enjoyed Face Off you might get something out of. I refused, because I do not like Nic Cage and will not be persuaded otherwise, and the trailer made me want to leave the cinema before the film I wanted to see started. Which was Miss Congeniality and it was a delight, even though no one could believe that that woman required a makeover to be beautiful. A tiny blemish on an otherwise flawless film. _

_ It’s nearly Christmas again. I feel I know your habits well enough to guess at your plans now. You’ll go to the markets, probably with Teddy. You’ll spend time at the Weasley’s. You will eat far too much and yet remain slim. You will complain about the cold, which I cannot empathise with because I will be too busy looking fabulous in my new coat.  _

_ I don’t have anything else to say and talking to you about this Sophie thing has inspired me to go talk to her again and make a better show of my support. Maybe I can help her plan her proposal. My romantic comedy addiction had better come in handy at some point.  _

_ Tastefully, _

_ Draco _

4th January, 2001

Draco,

Your predictions of my Christmas were alarmingly accurate. The only thing you missed was that I took Teddy  and Victoire Christmas shopping and that it was a really big mistake. Teddy’s one and a half and Victoire’s seven months, so I took one of those prams that has room for two kids, but Teddy wanted to walk because he always wants to walk, and then he got tired because he’s little and wanted a piggy back, which was fine, except it’s hard to push a pram and hold a kid’s legs around you at the same time, so I put him on my shoulders and only used one hand to steady him by the knees, which made me really anxious. I was tempted to use a Sticking Charm but I wasn’t sure how Andromeda would feel about me using magic on him like that. 

And then Victoire started crying so I had to insist he get in the pram, which he wasn’t happy about so he started crying as well. Luckily I distracted them with these multicoloured bubbles you can conjure that kids love and when they’d calmed down I took them back home, which I had to walk through Muggle London to do because I can’t even express how much kids hate Apparating. We’re going to stick with the park that’s close to my place when I have them both in the future.

So, okay, my handwriting isn’t amazing, but you could use a Dictation Charm on my letters rather than resorting to Sophie. I’m not doing anything weird just so that you can have excitement in your life, if anything you should be doing that. I’ve never seen you shopping for bread in the papers, you can afford to go around doing whatever you like. 

I’m not reacting to your phrasing about France  or the thing with the modelling. I’m not encouraging whatever the fuck you’re doing there. I think you flirt with me when you’re uncomfortable, and talking about the friend thing can’t have been easy and you basically said you were about us meeting, so I get it, not going to happen. I guess let me know when you are comfortable with that, because I am. No pressure, though, I’m hearing what you’re saying about change. I think I want it because I don’t know how accurate my memory of your voice is and I hear your words as if it’s you, but I could be way off. You have a German accent, right?

Sorry France wasn’t more romantically fulfilling. I kind of thought you might have wanted a break after everything with Natalia. You know with all this talk of you being timid, especially when it’s about your friends, you’re not going to find that wife that keeps coming up. You have to leave the house to meet people. 

I guess it’s understandable though. Do you know where you stand with your friends? Do you know what they think about how the war went down? Not something I’ve had to deal with. Sorry to hear about Nott being pissy with you. He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on. Or maybe he does. I bet it was more fun to be around you in school for people who were on your team.

Congrats on the job. Do you wear a uniform? An apron, maybe? What would I have to do to get a picture of that? I’m very famous, can that be a perk just this one time? How much trouble would I be in if I just happened to want a cup of tea while I was passing through Marlborough? I could be in the neighbourhood, work takes me all over. 

It’s the same Christmas-time rush at work as last year, which’ll probably last for another couple of weeks. People just get weird around this time, weird and drunk and sad. People smarter than me are looking into preventative stuff, so we can at least bring it back down to pre-war levels of weird.

If it’s not a weird thing to do, pass my congratulations on to Sophie. It’s not even that weird for people our age to be getting married if that’s what they want to do. Dean told me that Ernie Macmillon is engaged, can’t remember who to now. Someone from the year above us and I was never really good at knowing people outside our year unless they played Quidditch. 

Even if Sophie  does move, which there’s no guarantee of seeing as it’s nice to have a home base and she has work and family in Marlborough,  you can Apparate, so visiting her wouldn’t be impossible. And you could talk on the phone or email. Write letters even, though you’d have to do it through the post rather than by owl. I hope your getting involved went well. You’d be a good person to talk through that kind of plan. 

I guess I get it though. Ron and Hermione seem to be getting on well and if I’ve thought about it then surely they have. I’d be happy for them, obviously, but they wouldn’t live with me if they did, would they? This is such a stupidly big house and I like their company. Maybe I should ask someone else to move in. Or maybe they would stay, at least until they got married, because it is a big house and it’s convenient that it’s in London for all of us. 

Hermione’s started at the Ministry now, speaking of being close to work. She’s made me a five year plan, with me ending up as a senior Auror by the end of it. Worse, she wants me to come out this year so that I can start dating. I sort of have to do it in that order so that I can have some control over it, because if someone I date spills it then they could say whatever they want and get a stupid amount of money for it and I’d be paranoid about that. “Doesn’t speak about me to the press” is at the top of my list of qualities I’d like in a partner.

It’s a pretty bare list apart from that. I want someone who can make me laugh and who can put up with my bullshit but also call me on it. Someone I can be friends with and who isn’t spooked by how close I am with my other friends. Be nice to find someone I can play Quidditch with. I don’t know. I think I want Ginny, but, you know, a guy. Really inconvenient, that. 

Not that I’m really thinking about it yet. I guess I’ll get a better idea once I actually start dating. Which sounds horrific. Is there a movie out there that makes it seem even a little bit tolerable?

Reluctantly,

Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep making fun of the north of England because I’m originally from there. Shout out to Lancashire for those sweet stone walls and a really big hill that I refuse to climb whenever I visit.


	10. 2002 - March - An Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco finally meets up with Harry in person. It's a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was sitting at a blank document wondering how on Earth I was going to come up with another year of filler when I realised this is my fic and I can do what I want. So I just skipped it! Sorry, but I already covered all the plot points I wanted to before I reached this point and I struggle enough trying to think of what to say to my real life pen pal!
> 
> CW: for drinking to excess, a bit of cruelty and drunk sexual advances (that don't make it very far).

4th March, 2002

Draco,

Come hang out. Tispy Toad.

Harry

Draco didn’t particularly want to go to a wizarding bar. He didn’t particularly want to put on clothes and leave the warmth of the open fire, the peaceful ambience of the library. But where Harry had hinted at maybe meeting “one day”, he’d never outright _asked_ to meet him in person before, certainly not at this hour, and his handwriting was shaky. More so than usual. It actually was never as bad as Draco teased, but this particular letter was smudged and uneven. Careless. Drunk.

It was concern that made him change from his pyjamas and into a nice pair of jeans and a collared shirt. He left the first few buttons undone and the hem untucked, not wanting to look like an dickhead. He pulled his hair into a messy bun, then redid it when it wasn’t quite the _right_ kind of messy. Not that he needed to impress anyone. It was just Harry.

He Apparated to an alley not far from the bar Harry had misspelled in his owl and tugged his cuffs down in a nervous habit he’d learned from his father. He closed his eyes and told himself that You-Know-Who had been his roommate for nearly a year, he could handle walking into a bar and sitting with Harry Potter.

He found Harry sitting in a booth on his own, contemplating the mangled remains of the label on his beer bottle, picking at it with his thumbnail. He looked up while Draco was just edging around some idiot witch who thought the best place to talk to her friends was right in the doorway. His eyes remained blank for a moment, but then they shifted immediately to almost manic cheer.

‘There’s my friend!’ he bellowed, leaping to his feet. ‘Next round’s on me, fellow barmates!’

There was a cheer from several of the patrons and the looks directed at Draco (which he had assumed would be hostile upon recognition) were instead a mixture of surprise and amusement. He smiled tightly and made it to Harry. Harry held up his beer to the witch behind the bar and then two fingers to indicate he wanted two more.

‘Wait, is beer okay?’ he asked.

Draco laughed incredulously that those were the first words he’d heard from Harry in years and nodded.

‘Beer’s fine.’

In all honesty, he’d never had a beer. Wine was his drink; his parents had followed the rather French tradition of ordering him a small glass with restaurant meals since he’d been about six. But Blaise had snuck very cheap and awful firewhisky into the common room a couple of times and Sophie had bought him ridiculous cocktails before, so he was sure he could do beer. Harry collected the bottles from the witch and led Draco back to his booth.

‘So,’ Draco said. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ Harry said, his face relaxing into a somewhat lopsided grin.

‘Where are Granger and Weasley?’ Draco asked. ‘You don’t strike me as the kind to go out drinking on his own.’

‘’M not alone,’ Harry pointed out. Then he sighed. ‘They went home. Were fed up of me. Understandable really, I was mean.’

‘You were mean,’ Draco repeated disbelievingly. He wondered how much Harry had had. He wasn’t quite slurring, but he was louder and less precise with his words than Draco remembered.

Harry nodded morosely. His arm slipped across the table and he took hold of Draco’s hand where it was resting next to his beer, head falling onto his own bicep. Draco took a sip of beer so that he didn’t have to look into those plaintive eyes, staring up at him like he _needed_ him. The beer did not taste good, but it wasn’t so bad that he was obvious about not liking it.

‘I’m mean, Draco,’ Harry said. ‘People don’t get that about me, you know? I’m fine, right up until I’m not. Then . . . _boom.’_

‘Your having a temper isn’t news,’ Draco said. ‘Not to anyone who so much as glanced at you in school and certainly not to me.’ His eyes flicked around the booth desperately, but he kept ending up looking at where Harry was holding his hand, at his eyes.

Harry snorted inelegantly.

‘’S worse with them. ‘Mione says it’s ‘cause I trust them to stick around. She’s nice.’ Draco met his eyes again and saw Harry was smiling. It was much more difficult to tear his eyes away from that smile than it was from his pout. ‘Still was a dick to her. Might be a dick to you too.’

‘I think I can handle it,’ Draco said.

He wanted to ask _why,_ but something was stopping him. Harry Potter didn’t go to bars, get drunk and insult his friends. Harry Potter stayed at home and refused to move if it would disturb Granger’s cat. Whatever the reason, he thought asking about it would prompt whatever dickish behaviour Harry was worried about.

‘I’m the age my dad was when he died,’ Harry said abruptly, making Draco’s reticence moot.

‘Oh,’ Draco said.

‘To the day. He was this many days old when he tried to defend me and my mum from Voldemort. And he forgot his wand. And now I’m going to be older than him forever..’

Draco put his other hand on top of Harry’s. He didn’t know what to say. It felt strange to have to say something spontaneously; he was used to the freedom to stare into space while he organised his thoughts. It felt strange to be able to touch him; he was used to a Harry that existed in words and he’d avoided this whole meeting up thing exactly because he didn’t know how that friendship translated to action, he didn’t want to fuck up what they had. It just . . . felt strange.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ Harry said. He sat up, pulling his hands away. ‘Yeah, course I am. Hey, look at this.’

He took a coaster, balanced it so that it was slightly off the edge of the table and slapped his fingers onto the overhanging bit, before attempting and failing to snatch it out of the air.

‘You’re a _Seeker,’_ Draco said, appalled at the idea that Harry’s dexterity had deteriorated so much.

‘It’s harder than it looks!’

Draco caught the coaster easily. He then caught two coasters, one with each hand. Harry stuck out his tongue and managed to catch one. The next one Draco tried, he missed. _Fuck._

Somehow, with no conversation besides the running commentary that accompanied the coaster game, they made it through fifteen minutes. And then Harry got restless.

‘Come on, finish your drink, I want to go someplace else,’ he insisted. ‘I’m _bored.’_

‘You’re ridiculous,’ Draco said.

‘And you’re a pointy git, you don’t see me complaining about it,’ Harry said. Draco gave him a judgemental look. ‘Okay, _once,_ I’ve complained about it once. Now finish your fucking beer, we have places to be!’

Draco looked doubtfully at his beer, which still had a third left, but knew he couldn’t say no. He tipped the glass up and drank it in big gulps. Harry grinned at him and pulled him from the booth.

‘There’s a Muggle place around the corner,’ he said. ‘Let’s buy beers for football fans.’

So they did. Draco sat on a bar stool and Harry stood behind him with his hands on Draco’s shoulders, pointing up at the screen every so often and explaining the rules. Dave had already tried on multiple occasions, but Draco tuned him out every time. This time he listened, because apparently he couldn’t not listen to Harry. He just had one of those voices. And he was really patient, which Dave was decidedly not.

‘Offside, ref!’ a man in front of them shouted at the screen. Apparently the fact that this was a replay didn’t dim his enthusiasm at all.

‘What does that mean?’ Draco asked.

‘Something about the defence,’ Harry said. ‘Oi, sports fan,’ he called to the man. ‘Can you explain offside to us? I always cock it up.’

‘You gotta have two players in front of you on their own side,’ he said, not looking away from the screen. ‘Goalie usually counts as one, but you can’t overtake every other player. Unless the ref is a _fucking wanker,’_ he said, shouting out the last sentence to the television as if he might be heard and providing a supplementary hand gesture to illustrate the point.

‘That’s a ridiculous rule,’ Draco said. ‘Shouldn’t you be rewarded for being faster or better arranged?’

‘It’s to keep attackers from sticking right in front of the goals,’ the man said. ‘Wouldn’t be much of a game if you could just pass it to someone way down front every time.’

‘Cheers,’ Harry said happily. He lifted his beer to the man, who was unable to see it as it was not televised.

‘What’s your team?’ the man asked, apparently feeling friendly.

 _‘Not_ Manchester United,’ Draco said, in loyalty to Dave.

‘Good lad,’ the man said.

Once the game ended and a small collection of pint glasses had accumulated next to where they had been watching it, Harry and Draco found a booth. Given that it was a Monday and late, it was quiet enough that they had choices.

‘It’s no Quidditch,’ Harry said. He had mystifyingly acquired shots. Draco had been right next to him the entire time and had not noticed this happening.

‘No,’ Draco agreed. ‘Three points scored that whole game. Absurd.’

‘They’re called goals. But yeah, can you imagine playing a game like that?’

‘You _have_ played a game like that. Third year. You caught the Snitch so quickly I was convinced you had Summoned it.’

‘I’m just very good,’ Harry grinned. He did his shot and looked at Draco expectantly until he took his too. ‘Could still beat you.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you could,’ Draco said. His chin crept up slightly, skin prickling with the threat of irritation. With just a tame tease from Harry, the nearly four years of emotional intimacy were apparently not worth as much as they should have been. Draco let his voice come out haughty so that Harry would know the boundary. ‘I haven’t played against anyone since sixth year, the _start_ of sixth year, even. And I’ve very rarely rode my broom alone since then.’

Harry didn’t see the boundary. Or if he did, he didn’t much care about it. Instead of backing off, his grin slid from playful to wicked.

‘You’re full of excuses, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘No, of course, even if I sat on my broom backwards I still would have swept the floor with you at Hogwarts.’

‘Was that a fucking pun?’ Draco demanded.

Harry picked up a coaster and span it under his finger, still grinning in that evil way.

‘I was a fucking good Seeker, you know,’ Draco said. ‘I won almost every game when I wasn’t facing off against you. And I gave you more trouble than the other teams did.’

‘Uh huh,’ Harry said. His eyes flicked from his coaster back up to Draco’s and Draco felt some kind of thrill go through him. It was outraged and competitive and something that felt like fire in his blood. ‘Tell me, did your dad know it would take seven Nimbuses to get you your place because you were that bad? Or was it because you were scrawny as shit and Slytherin preferred players with troll blood in them?’

Draco considered punching him. He actually looked at his fist and wondered if he could just . . . punch him. _This is your best friend,_ he reminded himself. This was what he had been afraid of, that the sight of that fucking face, more adult or not, would revert him to his fifteen-year-old self. He kept himself from getting physically violent. He even kept himself from getting verbally violent.

‘Now now, Potter,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘Didn’t you once tell me that I was your favourite thing about playing Quidditch?’

Harry tipped his head back and laughed loudly. Draco leaned back, satisfied. All his old insults were ugly, bigoted things that his mind protested against without him even thinking about them that hard. How could he call Harry a half-breed with the atrocities those of Muggle blood had gone through, when any reference to blood was off limits now? How could he call him “Scarhead” when he knew how much Harry hated his fame and how much he associated the lightning bolt with You-Know-Who, and worse, his parents’ deaths. He certainly wasn’t going to insult his lack of parents anymore. He was declawed.

And a little drunk, he realised as he stood up. He reflexly jerked his hand behind him to steady himself on the table and Harry snorted in amusement. Draco gave him the finger and got himself mostly steadily to the bathroom. Once he was up, moving was almost normal. Still, he intended to nurse his next drink for much longer. He ordered two more beers, Blonde Witches because of the name. He sipped from both of them so he wouldn’t spill them on his way back to the booth, then realised that that was a bit more intimate than he’d meant it to be.

‘You’re my favourite and most pointiest of gits,’ Harry said, with great affection as he reached out for his pint. Draco mentally tallied that to be the fifth time his pointiness or gitishness had been mentioned. ‘Oi! You took some!’

‘Didn’t want to spill,’ Draco said, as though it hadn’t occurred to him how weird his thoughtless action was. He felt flushed and was unsure of whether it was the drinks, the embarrassment, or something else. He didn’t quite know what that something else might be. He turned his sleeves up in quick, efficient movements. He could, in a Muggle pub, as both his tattoo and his wand holster didn’t look like anything interesting.

Of course, he wasn’t sitting with a Muggle. Harry grabbed his wrist almost immediately and pulled Draco’s arm towards him.

‘I’m attached to that,’ Draco said.

Harry ignored him and traced the curves of the snake that twisted malevolently on his forearm. Draco stared at a coaster. Sophie had touched it too. She’d backed off when he said he got it from his “gang”. He didn’t want to see what Harry’s face looked like as he examined it.

Which was why he was quite shocked when he felt Harry’s warm tongue drag across it. Draco made a high noise of protest and jerked his arm back, staring incredulously. Harry just adjusted his glasses.

‘What the fuck?’ Draco asked.

‘Tastes like evil,’ Harry said.

Right. Well. Draco didn’t have a response to that. He dropped his hand to his lap, where the Mark would be out of view, and took a long draw of his beer.

One pint and one spirited but hilarious conversation about Muggle fortune telling later _(‘George’s Tarot readings are so accurate!’_ versus _‘It’s bullshit, it’s so much bullshit, it’s worse than astrology’),_ Draco dragged Harry out of the pub so that he could point out that Cancer was in the sky in _March,_ so fuck what the Muggles thought they knew, but was confronted by the starless, light-polluted sky of London.

‘Well that’s depressing,’ Draco said.

‘I took Astronomy,’ Harry said. ‘I know Cancer’s visible in March. In Scotland, anyway.’

‘I have no trust in your education,’ Draco said.

Harry smiled at him and leaned against the stone wall of the pub. With his hair even wilder than usual, a lazy look in his eye, his clothes slightly dishevelled and his slouch so pronounced, he looked like he belonged in a magazine. When on _Earth_ did Harry Potter get attractive? The last time Draco had seen him he’d been frighteningly thin--no, it had been at the trial . . . yes, well he was attractive then, so it must have happened before that. Narrowing down the time window did not help make the fact that the short, skinny boy with the terrible hair and always-broken glasses had grown up, and grown up _well._

‘There should be a spell so we can see through the clouds,’ Harry said, looking upwards again.

‘There should,’ Draco agreed, still staring at Harry.

‘You ever think about how you’re a dragon?’

Draco laughed and made his feet move so that he could stand next to Harry. Harry stopped slouching so much as though not wanting to give their height difference any more help.

‘Fuck, it’s cold,’ Draco realised, rubbing at his upper arms.

‘D’you want my coat?’ Harry asked, already pulling it off.

‘Then you’ll be cold,’ Draco said, shaking his head.

‘Don’t be a git,’ Harry said, wrapping it around Draco’s shoulders for him when Draco made no move to take it on his own.

‘According to you, I can’t help it,’ Draco said disdainfully.

Harry ignored him, intently focused on making the lapels of the coat lie flat even though Draco wasn’t even wearing it properly. Harry was broader than him, but Draco’s arms were longer and there was no way that it was a dignified look. This was his excuse, ready to be spoken if Harry asked why Draco was just standing there as Harry patted at the coat ineffectually. Draco shivered, at least partially from the cold, and Harry buttoned up two of the buttons over the top of Draco’s crossed arms.

‘You’re ridiculous,’ Draco said.

‘You’re ridiculouser,’ Harry said.

‘Let me out,’ Draco said, shrugging his shoulders and lifting his arms.

‘You’re _cold,’_ Harry reminded him.

‘So let’s go back in the pub,’ Draco said.

‘Let’s go someplace funner,’ Harry said.

Harry unbuttoned the coat and Draco sheepishly put his arms into the barely too-short sleeves. Not tailored properly to Harry, then. As soon as he had, Harry took his free hand and Draco was the one being pulled through the streets. Draco could feel his face heat up despite the _freezing_ night air. Why hadn’t he brought a coat? Because he had thought he was going to _one_ pub. He should’ve pulled his hand out of Harry’s, but he didn’t want to.

The next venue was a bar rather than a pub, darker and more modern. Harry immediately got onto a table and tried to lure Draco up to dance. Draco stared at him in horror for several seconds before he grabbed him around the legs and picked him up and off the table.

‘So sorry,’ he said to the woman behind the bar as he lowered Harry to his feet. He took him away before they could be kicked out officially.

‘I should have left you to the Fiendfire,’ Harry said darkly.

Draco stopped still, barely out of the doorway of the bar. Harry stopped too and glared at him. Draco didn’t know what to do with that kind of hate, not from Harry, not from _anyone._

‘Because I wouldn’t dance on a table?’ he asked, heart beating heavy in his chest with outrage.

‘You never let me have any fun.’

‘How could I possibly prevent you from Wiltshire.’

Harry shrugged, hands deep in his pockets and started walking off. Draco stomped his feet several times and narrowly suppressed the urge to scream at the sky before taking large strides to catch up with Harry again. _I was mean,_ Harry had said when explaining why he was alone tonight. Well, okay then. Draco had said he could take it and he absolutely could, hurt feelings be damned.

He still wasn’t going to be the first to break the silence. _Fuck_ him, honestly. Draco thought he was so mad he couldn’t cry and so sad he couldn’t shout, some perfect blend of complex emotions that was keeping him from making a fool of himself. Not least among them was self-hatred, telling himself that Harry was _right_ to say that. Merlin, he was stupid sometimes.

Harry stopped suddenly and Draco staggered unexpectedly to his own stop, trying to see what had prompted it. Harry had pulled out his wallet and was crouching in front of a pile of clothes in a doorway. Draco’s heart skipped with alarm when he saw that the pile had a human inside it. Harry carefully closed the person’s sleep-clumsy hand around a thick wad of Muggle notes and then straightened. Draco watched as the person tucked their hand and money deep within the folds of their clothes and then caught up with where Harry had already started walking off to.

‘Your shout next,’ he said quietly.

Draco stared at him. He couldn’t keep up with these changes of mood. He felt dizzy from booze and he hadn’t been drinking anywhere near as long as Harry.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Food first, though.’

‘You gonna slaughter me a deer?’ Harry laughed. ‘Do you remember?’ He laughed again, looking back at Draco with disbelieving glee. And then all the joy fell off his face. ‘Haven’t you seen enough death?’ he asked, suddenly devastated. ‘Why’d you hunt the deer?’

Draco gritted his teeth and steered Harry into a McDonalds, where he immediately brightened again and ordered a triple cheeseburger. Draco almost strangled the hypocritical bastard, but kept an urgent grip on his self control, instead listening as Harry told him a story that went in circles about his friends and burgers.

In the next pub, Harry sat his chair right next to Draco’s after he got back from the bathroom and Draco felt himself blushing again. It was warm compared to the chill of outside. Especially with Harry’s arm pressing against him. But then Harry was leaning back so that he could face Draco and Draco had no idea why he was missing the contact (their thighs were still touching and besides, wasn’t he sick of Harry by now?). He leaned back too, so only their knees were touching. Why were they so close?

‘I like your hair,’ Harry said, pushing a stray strand clumsily behind Draco’s ear.

Draco frowned and pulled the hair tie out so he could redo his bun. Harry caught his wrist and stopped him while his hair was still free. He released Draco so that he could put both hands in Draco’s hair and Draco shivered. He could feel that his eyes were wide. Harry’s fingers were thick and rough and warm against his scalp, moving so slowly that even when he encountered a knot it loosened painlessly.

Draco watched Harry watching him, looked right into his eyes as Harry followed the path his fingers made, stroking through Draco’s hair. There was a brown freckle in one of his eyes. Two. Harry’s gaze slipped to meet Draco’s and Draco felt the full force of something he was pretty sure he had been suppressing the entire night.

He was attracted to Harry. It wasn’t that Harry _was_ attractive, in a general sense, though he was. Draco was _specifically_ attracted to him.

Well, _that_ wasn’t very straight of him.

‘Looks nice when it’s down,’ Harry said. ‘I like it up too, but you look all soft with it down.’

‘If you call me feminine . . .’ Draco warned.

Harry laughed. Draco’s heart did stuttered hopelessly.

‘Uh, no. Definitely not what I was thinking.’ He took his hands away with one last lingering stroke down the hair right by Draco’s cheek and Draco almost grabbed them to put them back. _What had he been thinking, then?_ ‘Leave it down?’

‘I . . .’ Draco said, but Harry’s hopeful face melted any protest about liking it out of his face into nothingness. ‘Yeah,’ he said weakly.

Harry smiled and took a sip of his beer. Suddenly conscious of his incredibly dry mouth, Draco copied. Some dripped down his chin and he touched his fingers to it, looking down. Now he was aware of his attraction, it burned through him. When he looked up again, he was sure he saw recognition in Harry’s eyes. _Dangerous,_ his mind told him.

‘How’s work?’ Draco asked in a desperate bid to change the subject, tucking his hair behind an ear.

‘Good!’ Harry said, his voice incredibly false. ‘You know, I think it’s getting quieter. I mean, you’d think it would be, you’d think you could just find all the criminals and put them away and then it’d be done. There’s not that many wizards, actually? Like, okay, especially not for the last thirty years, and like our generation was fucking tiny compared to other year levels, like what, forty kids in our year and a thousand in the school?’

‘I don’t think that’s quite right,’ Draco said. ‘In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s the worst arithmetic anyone has ever done in the history of the world. There weren’t one hundred and fifty kids in all the other years.’

Harry waved Draco’s criticisms away.

‘Anyway, imagine Hogwarts was filled to capacity and there were, I don’t know, five hundred kids graduating every year.’

‘That wouldn’t be capacity, it’s a fucking castle. And fuck, where are we getting five hundred kids from?’

‘But even then there’d be like fifty thousand wizards in the entirety of Britain. There’s sixty _million_ people here. That’s point zero-zero-zero-eight per cent.’

‘You didn’t just do that maths.’

‘No, I told you, I’ve been thinking about this.’

Draco sighed and pushed his hair back off his face. Harry had not told him that. He gestured for Harry to continue.

‘So that’s absolute max, but it’s definitely smaller than that. Like, okay, take your hundred-fifty kids graduating—’

‘I said there _weren’t_ a hundred and fifty—’

‘Fifteen thousand. I don’t know what percentage that is. I’m just timesing it by a hundred cause I figure getting as old as Dumbledore isn’t that common, right? What was he, two hundred?’

‘A hundred and fifteen,’ Draco sighed. Again.

‘Huh. Okay, whatever. Fifteen thousand. Last year I closed thirty-five cases, just me and Evelyn. There’s nine pairs, eighteen Aurors, whatever. Three hundred cases last year? And let’s not pretend that each case has one perp. Like that’s not an insignificant proportion of the population. And there were more last year, year before, because Death Eaters, of whom, actually, a fair few got killed in the war or put away or whatever.’

‘What are you saying?’

Harry watched his own fingers as they drummed on the table. He was frowning, his jaw tight. Draco wondered if he dared reach out and try and soothe him.

‘It’s nothing. Stupid.’

‘Harry . . .’ Draco said.

Harry bumped his knee against Draco’s.

‘Back in a min,’ he said, getting up. He swayed rather dramatically but then steadied.

Draco watched him head to the bathroom and wondered if he’d have the courage to start that conversation again when he returned. No, he decided. They were both drunk. Better to ask later. Maybe via letter. Because he was fairly sure that Harry had been trying to tell him that he couldn’t stand being confronted with the amount of evil in the world, and he didn’t know how to have that conversation face-to-face. He didn’t trust Harry to be as generous as he always was about Draco’s past like this. And he didn’t want Harry to tell him something he didn’t mean to because he was drunk.

Harry returned, two beers in hand. He tripped over on his way even though the floor looked even, but didn’t spill anything.

‘Can these be our last?’ Draco asked.

Harry paused, still standing, and considered Draco. He took his time. Draco felt his skin buzz and his mouth dry again. No, if he thought having a _conversation_ with Harry was too much risk because of the alcohol, doing anything about his _very recently discovered_ feelings was way off the table.

‘If you’re saying you want to come home with me, we don’t have to drink these,’ Harry said, voice slow and deeper than usual.

Draco’s stomach swooped and his breath caught a little with the thrill of it.

‘I have my own home to get back to,’ Draco said.

‘I’ll probably stay out then,’ Harry shrugged, sounding casual again. He sat down and sipped his beer. ‘I don’t need babysitting, you know.’

Draco wasn’t sure about that. On the one hand, Granger and Weasley had seemed to think he would manage on his own. On the other, he was very famous and very drunk and had given away all his money.

‘Let’s get a taxi,’ Draco said. Harry looked at him with a bored expression. ‘Back to yours,’ Draco elaborated.

Harry smiled.

In the cab, Harry balanced a hand on Draco’s knee as he leaned forward and gave the driver directions. Draco sat very still and breathed as quietly as he could. In the confined space, he could smell Harry’s skin. Draco shifted his leg slightly towards Harry, feeling self conscious about parting it from the other. Harry’s hand drew higher incidentally.

 _No,_ he told himself strictly. _Don’t ruin this._ He closed his legs and leaned against the door, trying to create more space where there wasn’t really any. Harry took up all of it, sitting on the edge of the middle seat and limbs everywhere as he gestured them down another street. It was a relief when they were let out. Draco squinted at the meter and tried to work out if he’d been ripped off, but just paid. He didn’t know, maybe London had different rates. Maybe he’d been sitting in the back seat daring himself to be braver and convincing himself the right path was inaction for longer than he’d thought.

The cold air stole Draco’s careful breaths from his lungs and startled his eyes wide. He’d climbed out of the taxi too close to Harry and couldn’t remember how to step back.

Harry leaned in until his lips were brushing Draco’s ear and Draco _knew_ he should move away but he just couldn’t quite manage it, too caught up in how Harry’s breath tickled, but it wasn’t ticklish at all, it was something else that meant . . .

‘Harry Potter lives at number 12, Grimmauld Place,’ Harry murmured, voice rough with much more than an address.

Draco managed to move away as the house revealed itself to him. He willed his heart to slow down. He didn’t want Harry to see how affected he was, couldn’t encourage the intention he seemed to have brought him home with. He was here to make sure he got to bed safely, before some fan with none of Draco’s reservations came upon a drunk Saviour and convinced him into something stupid.

‘Coffee,’ Harry said as he opened the door. ‘Or, I don’t know, I think I have firewhiskey. I have beer but it’s really shit, you’re not drinking my shitty beer.’

Draco was too busy tripping over a troll leg umbrella stand _(why??)_ to protest against drinking more. Harry had already advanced down the hallway, leaving Draco to awkwardly catch up.

‘Hello!’ Harry cried. Draco entered the room and saw that Harry was talking to Weasley and Granger, who were sitting at a long table with mugs in front of them and looking sober in all senses of the word. It had to be almost four o’clock. ‘Hello, I am so glad you are in my kitchen and pretending you are my parents.’

‘We’re not pretending we’re—’ Weasley said exasperatedly.

‘Hello, Draco,’ Granger said over the top of Weasley’s protest. She said his first name without hesitation, which made Draco feel somewhat uncomfortable about the fact that he would absolutely not sound that natural if he attempted to return the courtesy. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Draco’s going to fuck me,’ Harry said, almost pleasantly.

‘I’m not,’ Draco said, wide eyed and entreating them to believe him. It was vital that his first impression on Harry’s friends since school not be one of him taking advantage of Harry, not when he was sure they thought he was doing that to begin with.

‘Why not?’ Harry asked, turning back to look at him curiously.

‘Because falling over drunk isn’t particularly sexy,’ Draco sighed, covering his face with his hand and wishing his soul would leave his body.

‘Bet I could change your mind,’ Harry said, and then all of a sudden Harry’s hand was grabbing Draco's arse and he jerked backwards and out of reach.

‘Harry, don’t,’ Granger said.

‘Don’t what?’ Harry said, turning on her. ‘Don’t have fun? Don’t do something stupid? Don’t chase after the only guy in the universe who doesn’t stare at my forehead the entire time we’re talking?’ He sounded angry again, his voice only slightly slurring. Draco still had no idea how drunk he was, only that the amount they’d had together was more than enough to be getting on with and Harry had a headstart.

‘Don’t touch people’s bums in front of people who aren’t involved in your sex life,’ Weasley shot back.

‘Oh!’ Harry cried dramatically. ‘Oh! So you _don’t_ want to be involved in every aspect of my life? This is some new information, Ron, how could I have possibly known you wouldn’t want to participate? You’re literally everywhere!’

‘Harry,’ Draco said, putting his hand on Harry’s arm. ‘How about we get you into bed.’

And just like that, Harry’s mood switched again. He looked at Draco with predatory eyes and Draco reacted exactly like prey would, frozen, heart beating wildly. Harry grabbed his hand and pulled him up the stairs, not noticing when Draco turned back to mouth _sorry_ at Granger and Weasley, who weren’t even looking at him to see.

Inside Harry’s room, Harry pressed Draco up to his door by way of closing it and when Draco turned his head away in panic, he mouthed unconcernedly at his neck. Draco’s restraint was barely holding up, he could feel his head tilting without his permission so that Harry could keep kissing, sucking, biting. His breath was ragged and arousal shot through him, burning through the cold of the night and making it irrelevant.

Harry slid his hands up Draco’s chest and then seized his shirt in one fist, pulled his mouth away so he could glare at it, and suddenly it was gone. Wordless and wandless. Draco’s already frantic heart rate seemed to grow louder in his ear. He needed to get control of himself. He flicked his wrist so that his wand flew from its holster into his hand.

‘Petrificus Totalus,’ he said, voice high but effective.

Harry’s limbs locked into place and Draco caught him by the upper arms before he could fall to the ground. His actions started to register in his mind.

 _‘Oh fuck,’_ Draco breathed. ‘Finite.’

Harry stepped back when the spell let go of him. He looked at Draco with hurt eyes and wrapped his arms around himself. He was visible despite neither of them turning on the light, soft illumination coming from the ceiling.

‘You _cursed_ me,’ he said.

‘I—’ Draco started. It was, technically, a curse. That it was one he’d learned when he was eleven and that he had immediately reversed it seemed like poor excuses.

Harry walked backwards, still hugging himself, and sat on his bed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Draco said, feeling limp and useless.

Harry nodded. Draco slipped his wand back into its holster.

‘Can you just . . .’ Harry said quietly. ‘Can you just keep me company?’

Draco nodded. His back was still pressed up against the door. He looked up at the ceiling to find the source of light and saw the night sky, not a perfect reflection of outside like the Great Hall had (no Cancer in this one), but a beautifully charmed replica. He dragged his eyes off it and focused on Harry.

Harry had curled up on top of the sheets. Draco swallowed. He tentatively stepped to the bed and started to unlace one of Harry’s shoes. Harry let him. The laces rasped noisily apart in Draco’s hand. Harry didn’t look, but lifted his foot as Draco cupped his heel and pulled the shoe off, then the other one. Harry placed his glasses on the bedside table without needing to be prompted.

Draco considered Harry’s jeans. They probably weren’t comfortable to sleep in and he would have taken them off if it weren’t for . . . He left them on and pulled back the sheets on the other side of the bed, rolled Harry gently onto the exposed side of the bed and covered him up. He toed off his own shoes and sat on the bed.

‘Come in,’ Harry said quietly. ‘Please.’

Draco closed his eyes and hoped for strength. He got under the covers and laid on his back.

Harry moved closer, still facing away from him, and then rolled backwards slightly onto Draco so he could take his hand and use it to pull Draco onto his side too. Draco’s bare chest pressed closely to Harry’s jumper and their hands were intertwined under Harry’s chin. Draco pressed his forehead to the back of Harry’s neck, hurting from the intimacy. He hadn’t had anything like this in so long.

They were quiet for long enough that Draco’s heart slowly calmed and he felt the soporific effects of the alcohol starting to claim him. He wanted to leave _(couldn’t_ return to the Manor tomorrow morning after staying out all night and not even telling his parents where he was going, needed to get back before they realised he was gone), so he fought against it, just waiting until Harry was asleep.

Because Harry was clearly not asleep yet. His breathing was irregular, his fingers moved against Draco’s, he shifted his hips, trying to get comfortable.

Then he shifted them again. And again. Draco squeezed his eyes shut and begged his body not to respond. Harry moved again.

‘Harry,’ Draco pleaded.

‘Draco,’ Harry groaned.

Draco took a shuddery breath and held Harry’s hip still and shuffled back and away. He couldn’t convince Harry this was wrong for his own sake, that had never and would never work.

‘Harry,’ he said, trying for a stern tone and not quite landing it. And fuck, he couldn’t just tell him what to do, either.

Harry made movements to turn over and Draco let him. His face looked so different without the glasses, more different than made sense.

 _‘Why not?’_ Harry demanded. ‘I’m not stupid, Draco. You want me.’

All of Draco’s excuses would be dismissed, except . . .

‘I’m drunk,’ Draco said quietly. ‘Please don’t take advantage of me.’

The effect was immediate. Harry’s face crumpled into appalled sorrow and he pressed his face sideways into the pillow, refusing to meet Draco’s eyes. After a few seconds Draco realised with horror that Harry was _crying._ Draco reached out to touch his shoulder and Harry started to actually shake, made an awful keening noise and continued to sob into the pillow.

‘It’s okay,’ Draco said, tone soft and mind tipping back into panic. He shouldn’t be seeing this. He wanted the simplicity of words on paper, where he could cry all he needed and never show a sign. This was too precious for him to witness. ‘You didn’t do anything, I’m okay, you’re okay.’

Harry responded by crumpling forward until his forehead was against Draco’s chest and Draco took this as a desperate and sincere need to be held. He rolled onto his back and pulled Harry gently into his arms, stroking his shoulder with the hand underneath him and combing through his strangely soft mess of hair with his other one. Harry’s shoulders shook with the force of his cries, cries he was clearly trying to muffle between closed lips but that refused to be silent. Draco’s chest was wet with tears and he hated himself for noticing that it itched when that couldn’t be less important.

‘Harry,’ Draco murmured, ‘it’s okay.’

‘It’s not,’ Harry sobbed. His breath hitched with the effort it took to speak through his tears. ‘Draco . . .’ Draco squeezed him helplessly. ‘Draco, my dad’s dead.’

Draco’s eyes closed. Yes, that made more sense. That’s what all of tonight had been about, every second of it. Even his attempt to sleep with Draco, he just needed the distraction, the closeness. Draco kept stroking his hair.

‘I know,’ Draco said. ‘It’s not fair.’

Harry made a noise that was halfway between a sob and a laugh. ‘It’s _not_ fair,’ he said.

‘Oh, Harry,’ he said. He pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead, like his mum used to when he was upset. It never failed to make him feel loved, not even in that stupid, awkward period when he thought his parents’ affection was embarrassing. And he ached with love for Harry. ‘It’s awful.’

Harry’s sobs got more intense, until they went entirely silent, only obvious by his still shaking shoulders. And then they slowed, until his shoulders only shook once every few seconds, like a hiccup.

Draco didn’t notice when Harry fell asleep, but eventually he noticed how heavy Harry was on him, that the tears seemed to have stopped and his breathing was soft and heavy, and he realised there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to risk waking him to leave.

It took him a while to relax, stroking Harry’s hair and staring up at the stars as they slowly moved across the ceiling. He found Jupiter and Saturn, not twinkling like the stars. The Sagittarius constellation. Perhaps this was based on August? His fingers stilled in Harry’s hair for a moment. No, he’d put his money on this being the way the stars looked on the day Harry was born. Even in a house that revolved around a stellar tradition that would give Draco his own name, he had no doubt whose handiwork he was looking at. The irony that a Muggle-born brought the stars to the Black house made him smile.

He relived their evening, torturing himself by remembering when Harry was cruelest and then torturing himself some more by remembering when he was unforgivably charming. It was worst when he replayed every time they touched, Harry holding his hand, squeezing his shoulders, fingering through his hair. Draco’s hand around Harry’s wrist, his arms bizarrely around Harry’s legs. He remembered and yearned for those touches even with Harry’s weight on his chest.

He fell asleep as his eyes finally gave up on tracking the movement of a Muggle satellite across Harry’s ceiling.

When Draco woke up, Harry was curled up on the other side of the bed, facing away from him. He watched the easy rise and fall of his breathing as he blinked himself to proper awareness, then carefully climbed out of bed, picked his shoes up and tiptoed out of the room.

He made sure to be quiet on the stairs, taking in the framed pictures he’d been dragged past too quickly to see last night. Harry’s friends, his family. Some he didn’t recognise but whose identity was obvious, of a man who looked exactly like Harry, but for the different eyes and glasses, the lack of a scar. One where the man was playfully picking up a red-headed woman with Harry’s eyes as she laughed. Another with the same woman in a wedding dress, a handsome and slightly wild looking man roaring laughter with them.

When he entered the kitchen, Granger and Weasley were there again. He grimaced at the way he must look, shirtless and shoeless, creeping out of Harry’s bedroom.

‘I didn’t—’ he said hopelessly. ‘He vanished my shirt.’

Granger sighed.

‘Stay for coffee,’ she said, and it wasn’t a question.

Draco sat down on the very edge of one of the dining seats. Granger put the kettle on and left the room, leaving Draco and Weasley alone.

‘So,’ Weasley said.

They were both silent again. The kettle seemed to be malfunctioning, taking hours to boil.

‘I like the wallpaper,’ Draco said, awkwardly.

‘Yeah,’ Weasley said, looking at it as if he’d never seen it before. ‘Flowers.’

Draco repressed a groan. He’d been talking to Harry for _years,_ he had to get along with his friends. He just had to. Otherwise they were going nowhere and Harry would think Draco didn’t care about him enough to make nice and if Draco was ever invited anywhere again it would just be a disaster. And he _wanted_ to be invited somewhere again, under less complicated circumstances.

The clock on the wall ticked.

‘Your sister,’ Draco said. ‘She plays for Holyhead, right?’

‘Yes!’ Weasley said, seizing the topic. ‘Yes she does!’

And . . . they both failed to follow through with another sentence. Draco had suddenly forgotten everything about Quidditch he’d ever known. Weasley’s sister, she played Chaser at Hogwarts, he could ask . . . but he already knew she was a Chaser, he was well aware that her joining the team was a real contributor to the Harpies’ place at fourth on the ladder.

What else did Weasley like? What did he even do? Surely Harry had mentioned at some point. Several points, probably, but Draco couldn’t fucking remember. Weasley seemed to be thinking too; Draco hoped he was coming up with another topic. He’d chosen the last two anyway, ineffectual though they had been.

 _Just say something,_ Draco’s mind demanded.

The kettle started to whistle and Weasley muttered _oh, thank Merlin_ under his breath as he pulled mugs from cupboards.

‘How do you take it?’ Weasley asked politely.

Draco restrained himself from making a dirty joke, something he seemed to do when he felt awkward, and said, ‘Do you have tea?’

‘Course,’ Weasley said, pulling tea bags out of another cupboard.

‘Milk and one sugar please. Not too weak.’

Weasley nodded and made the drinks. Apparently it took a lot of focus, the kind where Draco probably didn’t have to break the silence. But _oh dear giddy Grindylow,_ Draco was uncomfortable.

‘I didn’t sleep with him,’ Draco said suddenly. ‘I promise, swear on anything, nothing happened.’

‘You have a hickey on your neck,’ Weasley said without turning around.

‘Fuck,’ Draco said, matter-of-fact. ‘I cast a Full Body-Bind on him for that, I bruise so fucking easily.’

Weasley snorted with amusement. At least he didn’t seem angry. He also didn’t seem to be helping Draco by healing it. Draco hoped to the stars that he would be able to get showered and dressed in something with a high collar before his parents even noticed he was gone. He was rubbish at healing charms.

‘Don’t ditch him over that,’ Weasley said suddenly. ‘I mean, do if you have to, it’s your prerogative. But he doesn’t mean it, the way he pulls you close then pushes you away. He just . . . Anyway, he doesn’t really drink unless there’s an occasion.’

‘Right,’ Draco said.

Thankfully, Granger reentered the room. She tossed a t-shirt to Draco and he looked at the front _(I’m a Keeper_ with a picture of Quidditch goals) before putting it gratefully on.

‘Whose . . .?’ he asked.

‘Harry’s,’ Granger said. ‘Given that he was responsible for your other one being lost, it seemed appropriate. He loves that shirt, says it’s the most comfortable one he owns.’

‘It is soft,’ Draco said.

‘Come on then,’ Weasley said. ‘Let’s do this outside.’

‘It’s March,’ Draco pointed out.

Weasley and Granger didn’t seem to care. Draco followed them to the small garden out the back reluctantly. Granger waved her wand and a Warming Charm wrapped around Draco’s body, focusing on his feet, subtler around his torso and almost non-existent on his face. It was obvious why she’d done it that way. The cold air was nice to breathe in.

Weasley handed him his tea and Draco smelled the coffee Granger held as she inexplicably took the chair right next to his, even though the table they sat at could comfortably sit six. He looked at her warily as he sipped his _(way too hot, honestly it’d just been boiled, why was he sipping it)_ tea. Of the two of them, she was the one he judged to be the bigger danger, despite the fact that he felt a _lot_ more comfortable with a shirt on and she’d been the one to give it to him.

‘I didn’t sleep with him,’ Draco said.

Granger rolled her eyes and took out her wand again. Draco felt himself tense every single muscle he had as she pointed it at him, but she just healed his love bite with a soft, _‘Contusum Consano.’_

‘Thank you,’ he said. He sipped his tea again, if only so his shaking hands wouldn’t spill it. ‘He, uh . . . He told me about a million times last night how sorry he was for what he said to you.’

‘Good,’ Granger said shortly, but Draco thought she was unimpressed with Harry, not him.

‘And that he loved you. And that he knew you loved him. And that he didn’t deserve how you would always forgive him.’

‘He didn’t have a go at you then?’ Weasley asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ Draco said. ‘Lots of material, you know.’

‘Shit,’ Weasley commiserated, nodding. ‘Any positives?’

‘Oh,’ Draco said. ‘Yes. He’s . . .’ He didn’t know how to finish that. In the sober light of day, Draco couldn’t bear for anyone to figure out his feelings.

‘He has a way of finding the worst possible thing he could say and saying it with such _utter_ conviction,’ Granger said. ‘The best things too, actually.’

‘Yeah,’ Weasley sighed.

The mood slumped. Draco breathed in the steam from his tea.

‘He wouldn’t tell me what he said to you,’ Draco said. ‘It made him sad, so I didn’t push.’

‘He told us we were abandoning him,’ Granger said. ‘We moved out ages ago, honestly.’ She sniffed and drank some coffee. ‘He said it hurt him every time he looked at us.’

‘With that face,’ Weasley added. ‘All . . . yeah, like ‘Mione said. Conviction.’

‘Like he’s never believed anything more and he’s . . . him.’

Draco was overcome with the mad impulse to cover Granger’s hand with his own in a comforting sort of way. He restrained himself, mildly horrified at the very thought.

‘But he doesn’t mean it,’ Draco said.

‘Course not,’ Weasley said. ‘And he comes back here and tells us we’re smothering him! Merlin, he’s an arse.’

‘He just knows what will hurt,’ Granger said.

‘Yes,’ Draco said awkwardly, thinking of Fiendfire.

Hogwarts suddenly felt too close. Harry had _always_ known how to make it hurt, it was one of the reasons Draco had never once felt bad about the things he said to any Gryffindor until after the war, when he’d had the space to take a breath. He should have apologised to Granger and Weasley, whose parents and appearances and competency he had mocked viciously, along with anything else he could think of, never really noticing that it was consistently Harry answering back on their behalf.

‘I’m—’ Draco started, but Weasley was talking so he stopped.

‘Guess it’s easier to see the good stuff when he’s choosing what to write to you,’ Weasley said. ‘Make it seem like he’s okay.’ He met Draco’s eyes steadily. ‘He’s not, really.’

‘None of us are,’ Granger said softly.

‘I know he’s not,’ Draco said. ‘Yes, no, I know that I haven’t seen anything like this since school, I know that when I’ve gone to write something angry I’ve usually burnt through it by the time I finish saying what I wanted to say and I can start again without being a prick, but . . . well, I’ve told him things I don’t think I would have if we’d been talking like this. It’s easier, without the eye contact, when you’re surrounding the things with other words, when you can choose the right way to say it. I know he’s not okay. He knows I’m not.’

Draco shrugged and dropped his eyes to his tea. He felt embarrassed at his outburst.

‘He said the same about writing to Sirius,’ Granger said. ‘He doesn’t especially talk about your letters.’

‘He talks about him all the time,’ Weasley said incredulously.

‘Yes, but in a “Draco said this” kind of way, not as we just have.’

‘Well,’ Draco said. ‘He is British. We’re only allocated one feeling a year.’

That got a weak laugh out of them. Draco marvelled at himself. He was having a cup of tea and a laugh with Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger.

Harry chose that moment to stumble outside, eyes squinted mostly shut and his hair in worse disarray than usual. He stopped at the doorway to take in the scene before half falling onto Weasley’s back and wrapping his arms around his neck.

‘Yeah, alright mate,’ Weasley said. ‘And Malfoy was just saying how British you are, what do you call this?’

‘Sorry,’ Harry said, voice rough with sleep.

‘Thanks,’ Weasley said awkwardly. He patted Harry’s forearm.

Harry ruffled Weasley’s hair as he stood up and crossed to Draco and Granger’s side of the table. Granger stood up so that they could hug properly and Draco heard Harry apologising quietly to her too. Weasley caught Draco’s eye and made a face to express the awkwardness of the situation, which made Draco laugh in shock. He was having a wordless conversation with Ronald Weasley.

Harry released Granger just as the kettle, still warm from its last round and with less water to slow things down, started to whistle noisily from inside. Weasley stood up to deal with it as Harry turned to Draco. He considered Draco muzzily.

‘Dunno if I should hug you,’ he said. He held his hand out to shake Draco’s and Draco accepted it with an amused huff. In all honesty, he was glad to escape being hugged in front of Granger, no matter how ridiculous it was for Harry to suddenly decide they had physical boundaries.

‘Sorry,’ Harry said. ‘God, I haven’t seen you in years. What an impression.’

Harry sat down next to Weasley’s chair. A moment later Weasley returned and Harry accepted his tea. Some strange part of Draco was glad that he had tea in the mornings as well, which made absolutely no sense. He watched as Harry rubbed at his face, lifting his glasses up as he got at his eyes.

‘Yes, well, I knew you were an idiot,’ Draco said, a bit late to be smooth.

‘Cheers, Draco,’ Harry said. ‘Fuck, I’m hungover.’

‘You did drink several pubs out of business,’ Draco said.

Harry laughed and then pressed his palm to his temple, groaning. Granger sighed indulgently and left for inside again. Draco searched for something to say, but was coming up with nothing. Weasley looked to be facing the same difficulty and Harry didn’t look like he was capable of caring about anything outside of his hangover as he kneaded his head and sipped noisily at his tea.

‘Here,’ Granger said, reappearing. She handed Harry a mango on a plate with a knife. Not exactly a potion for his hangover symptoms.

‘Thanks, Hermione,’ Harry said gratefully. He put down his tea and proceeded to make a very good argument for why mangos should be prepared in a kitchen before being consumed.

He cut a third of the mango away, in line with the seed, and put the seed part down. He then sliced a grid of lines in the mango he held and turned it inside out so that cubes of segmented mango were exposed. And then he proceeded to devour the thing in as messy and enthusiastic a way as was humanly possible.

Weasley caught Draco’s look of perplexed horror and snorted.

‘Here’s the litmus test for if you really like him,’ he said. ‘Last night’s one thing, but can you be mates with a bloke who does this?’

‘Of course,’ Draco laughed uncertainly. ‘Unrelatedly, I really must be going.’

‘What, now?’ Harry asked, juice dripping down his chin.

‘You can stay,’ Weasley said, which was a surprising corner to hear that from, but Draco thought he managed to nod as if this made sense. The truth was that Draco didn’t know how to do this conversation thing at all and none of them were making it any easier. And besides . . .

‘Thank you, you’ve been excellent hosts. Weasley and Granger that is, you were a bloody nightmare, Harry. But I didn’t tell my parents I was going out last night and I don’t make a habit of it . . . I sincerely hope they didn’t notice I was gone.’

‘Tell them,’ Harry said, an endearingly wonky smile on his admittedly less-than-handsome, hungover face. Not just a drunk expression, then. ‘Then write me what their reactions were.’

‘They’ll be fucking thrilled,’ Draco said. He put on a higher voice, pretending to be his mum. ‘Finally, actual wizard friends, and _so_ well connected.’

‘Oh, Merlin,’ Harry breathed. ‘You can’t go yet, I need you to stay and swear at me in your stupid posh accent, that was the best thing I’ve ever heard.’

Weasley snorted. He leaned on the back of Harry’s chair and muttered something that made colour rise in Harry’s cheeks. Draco assumed Harry was going to get a lot of ribbing about how he’d seemed fairly insistent on taking Draco to bed last night.

‘Right, well,’ Draco said. ‘Thank you for the tea.’

He nodded awkwardly (almost a bow, _so_ awkwardly) and escaped inside, back to the kitchen and the fireplace it contained. He spent several seconds looking for where they kept the Floo powder. He found it in a pot plant that looked like it had been painted by a small child, but for all Draco knew it could be a Harry Potter original. He stepped in and closed his eyes until the spinning stopped and he arrived in his own kitchen.

His parents were both waiting for him. He was strongly reminded of Granger and Weasley waiting for Harry last night.

‘Well,’ Narcissa said. ‘I _am_ glad to see you all in one piece.’

‘Is this . . .’ Lucius said, gesturing with a graceful hand to encompass all of Draco, ‘fashion?’

Draco laughed weakly.

‘Um, no. It’s Harry’s shirt. He . . . Mine . . . I borrowed it.’

‘Ah,’ Lucius said.

His parents were sitting at the kitchen bench. On _stools._ Where the food was prepared. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so decided to put the kettle on. It was the done thing in situations where one didn’t know what else to do.

‘So,’ Narcissa said. ‘You’ve been out with Harry Potter.’

‘Yes,’ Draco said.

‘And you have returned at nine o’clock the following morning.’

This time Draco hesitated a moment before answering, ‘Yes.’

‘Is Harry your . . .’ Lucius paused, choosing the words to describe what he meant without actually asking directly, _‘special friend?’_

‘No!’ Draco said. ‘F— Merlin, _no._ He’s just a regular friend, who got a bit too drunk last night, so I helped him home. And then he offered me a room for the night, which I accepted.’

Both his parents looked at him with great skepticism.

‘Weasley and Granger were there!’ Draco insisted, which was a slight stretch of the truth, but if there were ever an occasion to tell a few fibs . . . ‘I thought you’d be pleased that I was spending time with those in the magical community,’ he said, which made Lucius pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh.

‘We have no problem with your Muggle friends,’ Narcissa said, with great politeness.

‘We would in fact insist on your having them over, if the Manor were in better repair,’ Lucius said, also polite, eyebrows a _millimetre_ from where Draco judged the truth to be. ‘They could have tea at the setting near the hedge maze, were circumstances different.’

‘No, dear,’ Narcissa said. ‘The hedges do have a habit of showing off for guests. But a picnic near the orchard would not cause any trouble. Not until the Manor is completed.’

 _‘Our gates are enchanted,’_ Draco gritted out. ‘Everything is enchanted! The only way I could have a Muggle over would be if they were related to a wizard or if we Obliviated them after! Which would rather defeat the purpose!’

Lucius sighed again and Narcissa’s lips thinned slightly. Draco poured tea to stop himself from screaming in frustration or trying to tell them for the _millionth_ time that the Manor looked plenty finished and they were the only ones who saw the flaws. His parents took their cups with too-polite thank-yous.

‘The hedges would not trouble Mr Potter, on the other hand,’ Narcissa said.

‘The _state_ of the place,’ Lucius said, horrified. ‘No, Draco, you must put him off. We’ll focus our attentions on the exterior and then yes, the setting near the hedge maze _may_ be suitable . . . but no, it’s Harry Potter. We cannot have high tea near the hedge maze.’

‘Quite,’ Narcissa agreed. ‘The Blue Room?’

‘Can you stop?’ Draco choked. ‘Why are you planning to have Harry over?’

‘And the other ones,’ Lucius said, ‘the Granger, the Weasley. Heavens, I suppose they have other friends, too. Well, it would fill out the room.’

‘Stop?!’ Draco said again, feeling almost as hysterical as he had when he’d put Harry in a Full Body-Bind and absolutely sure that the same strategy would not serve him in this situation. ‘I’m not inviting Harry over, you don’t have to . . .’

‘What happened to your shirt?’ Lucius asked suddenly.

‘Harry vanished it,’ Draco said reluctantly, knowing any story of staining it with wine or what have you would result in his having to somehow procure an identical shirt in the future.

‘Hmm,’ said Lucius.

The silence that followed was almost as awkward as the one Draco had shared with Weasley, but this time he refused to break it with the insistence that he wasn’t sleeping with Harry, regardless of the temptation. He looked hopelessly at his parents, and came to realise that they were paler and more drawn than he’d seen them in a while.

‘Did you stay up all night?’ he asked quietly.

‘Now, darling,’ Narcissa said, ‘let’s not make a fuss.’

‘Go to bed,’ Draco said sternly.

‘An owl would be appreciated next time, pet,’ Lucius said, standing up and sighing in the way he did when he very much wanted to yawn. Draco had rarely seen either of his parents yawn; it wasn’t polite.

‘Of course,’ Draco said, looking down. ‘I’m sorry.’

Narcissa stroked Draco’s hair back and held the back of his head so that she could press a kiss to his forehead. As his parents left the kitchen, he heard Narcissa say, _‘No, the Rose Room really would . . .’_ and then they were gone, leaving Draco to make himself breakfast, feel guilty and worry about whether his parents really intended to have Harry (and an unknown quantity of friends) over for high tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have gone overboard making Harry a dick in this one, but I wanted to have Draco see him at quite literally his worst. Like, probably worse than straight out of the war, because that instinct to survive has lost its urgency and after several years forcing himself to continue to be surrounded by evil, he has no idea what he's doing with his life. More on his emotional state to come as they work through things!
> 
> (I've been working towards this for a while and have been making Harry A Bit Too Okay for his actual state in preparation, hoping the contrast would make it more affecting.)


	11. 2002 - March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With pressing things to discuss, Harry and Draco increase their rate of owling each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter one! But that's for obvious reasons. Getting to the pointy end now!

6th March, 2002

Draco,

I am really sorry for how I was the other night. Really, really sorry. I was an idiot and I’m so grateful for you taking care of me. It was a freak event and I promise I won’t put you through that again.

I’m also really sorry about coming on to you. I don’t have an excuse for that and it was genuinely horrifying to remember how inappropriate I was. You were more gentle and understanding than I deserved. Thanks.

This should be pages long, but I threw that version out. I don’t want to make excuses. You were beyond amazing and I get it if you need space from my very sorry and very stupid self.

Apologetically,  
Harry

_6th March, 2002_

_Harry,_

_Don’t be daft. I won’t make the claim that it was all unicorns and billywigs, but some of it was actually very fun. What are friends for if not to make sure you get home safe?_

_And look, I won’t pretend there wasn’t some awkwardness, but I was exactly as understanding as you deserved, perhaps even not enough. You were having a rough night. Would you like to talk about it?_

_Friendlily,  
Draco_

7th March, 2002

Draco,

I shouldn’t have burnt my excuses letter. I don’t really want to talk about it, no. You’ve already seen me like that and I don’t want to draw it out. But I probably should. You definitely deserve my honesty.

A couple years ago, I started keeping count of dates more. I know it’s not especially healthy and Hermione’s asked me not to, but I don’t know. I felt shit for letting all those milestones go past when I wasn’t keeping track because eventually I would be like “my parents had already had me by the time they were my age” but I didn’t know exactly when that had happened and it felt like maybe I didn’t care enough to know. When I was at school I never even thought about the anniversary of their death. And I don’t have the excuses I had at school anymore.

Anyway, Mum was a couple months older than Dad but I’m not going to go through all of that again, it’s not the same and I don’t want to be like that. I’ve always felt like everyone expected me to be just like him “when I grew up” and I kind of had that shattered when I saw this memory of Snape’s of what my dad was like to him when they were 15, but I didn’t quite shake it. And now I’m older than he ever was and it’s kind of like . . . who am I going to be now?

And I’m not doing anything. I’ve got my job but I’m pretty sure I’m doing it so I don’t feel guilty about not doing it. I’m not making a difference. I don’t do any of the things people tell me will make a difference.

I basically just didn’t want to think about any of that and so I started drinking and then I got a bit hot and cold with everyone for some reason and Merlin, it must have been so fucking confusing. I don’t know why I was like that. I really wish I was better than that.

Shamefully,  
Harry

_7th March, 2002_

_Harry,_

_It must have been so hard. It must continue to be hard. I’m so sorry for your loss. I don’t know what else to say. I hope you know that there isn’t a “correct” way to react and I will tell you as many times as necessary that I am not holding the other night against you._

_You talked a bit about your job, but I didn’t want to push. Why are you still there if it’s making you miserable?_

_Supportively,  
Draco_

7th March, 2002

Draco,

Whenever I take my holiday days (which we have to) or I’m at Mungo’s, I feel worse. I need a reason to get up in the morning or I just don’t. And what else am I going to do? I don’t even have N.E.W.T.s. I still get stopped in the streets sometimes, I don’t think I could have a normal job. And I’m good at this.

Resignedly,  
Harry

_7th March, 2002_

_Harry,_

_You’re good at other things and I highly doubt anyone is going to ask for your N.E.W.T.s. What do Granger and Weasley think?_

_Are you owling me from work?_

_Reasonably,  
Draco_

7th March, 2002

Draco,

Ron thinks I should play Quidditch professionally. I’d get on whichever team I wanted and then they’d tank, because I’m just a name. Well, I couldn’t make the Cannons worse, but orange isn’t my colour. Or anyone’s. Hermione has given me an enormous list that I haven’t read, but she’s easy to distract when she tries to follow up on it.

It’s a slow day. Ish. Are you owling me from work?

Procrastinatingly,  
Harry

_7th March, 2002_

_Harry,_

_I finished at 2, so no. Both our owls know to just take letters to my home rather than deliver them when I’m around Muggles, I had a word with them about it. Usually we’re not quite so quick about it so it doesn’t matter if the letter is sitting there without my seeing it._

_Punctually,  
Draco_

7th March, 2002

Draco,

This is hilarious, our mail has to go through anti-jinx screening before it comes to us, so this tiny bloke with really shitty facial hair keeps running your letters to me. And I do mean running. He must think they’re really important, this is definitely brightening my day!

Sadistically,  
Harry

_7th March, 2002  
_

_Harry,_

_You’re a menace! I will chalk this up to my influence. I want my own runner boy, that sounds incredible._

_Well now I have to think of something real to say to you to prolong this poor man’s misery. I have your last “real” letter here, I could respond to bits from that I suppose. Mete them out in little nibbles so that we can make Mr Poor Facial Hair earn his keep._

_You really are a baby about the cold weather, you know that? It’s delightful! Snow is beautiful and so is winter fashion. Though, I may be coming around to your side after our impromptu pub crawl. I did not dress for that. There, see? You were a gentleman for at least ten minutes that night, and I was a very demure lady companion accepting your chivalry._

_Coyly,  
Draco_

7th March, 2002

Draco,

I don’t think I can joke about that, not with the way I was later. I’d post my coat over to you and walk home without it if I thought extending that whole minor-chivalry thing would balance it out.

Awkwardly,  
Harry

_7th March, 2002_

_Harry,_

_It didn’t fit me that well, as funny as it would be to imagine your charging Mr Poor Facial Hair with the delivery. I can’t think of any other reason you would need to spontaneously mail your coat somewhere and the idea of someone puzzling over your actions is very good._

_And, look, as high an opinion I have of myself, I don’t delude myself that it was anything other than the fact that I was there and you wanted a distraction. We can forget about it. Or we can treasure the moment that you came to your senses and realised what a dish I am._

_Irresistibly,  
Draco_

7th March, 2002

Draco,

I can’t believe I’m saying this to you of all people, but you should have a bit more confidence in yourself. I mean, I want us to forget it for my dignity’s sake, but I wouldn’t have been like that with Ron, obviously. It’s not that I want you to think I fancy you or anything, I definitely don’t want to be that arsehole hitting on their straight friend just because he’s pretty. I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t want you to think I’m like that all the time with everyone. Just take it as a compliment and then please forget everything about it.

Even more awkwardly,  
Harry

_7th March, 2002_

_Harry,_

_I’m not straight, actually._

_Prettily,  
Draco_

7th March, 2002

Draco,

That’s nice! Really good for you to, you know. Know that. Still, not a cool move on my part. Worse? No, that’s insane. Anyway. Pride!

Proudly?  
Harry

_7th March, 2002_

_Harry,_

_Graceful, Potter. That right there was extraordinarily graceful._

_Condescendingly,  
Draco_

7th March, 2002

Draco,

Hey, remember when I came out to you and you awkwardly asked the one queer person you knew of at the time how to find a boyfriend on my behalf? And your friends thought you were talking about yourself because you definitely give off gay vibes? And how that was like three years ago but you’ve called yourself straight remarkably recently?

Reminiscently,  
Harry

_7th March, 2002_

_Harry,_

_Remember when you had to find out because your ex-girlfriend dumped you for being gay?_

_Also reminiscently,  
Draco_

7th March, 2002

Draco,

I’m so glad I’m at home now and no one else is, that made me laugh way too hard. Okay, can we call it even? We already knew I was shit at social things. And with the speed of this back and forth we’ve started, I didn’t exactly have time to Floo Hermione and ask how you respond to things like that. You should have seen me when Luna came out to me.

Competently,  
Harry

_7th March, 2002_

_Harry,_

_I’m glad you laughed, I worried I’d gone too far the second Tyton flew away and nearly Summoned him back. Blame it on me being tired. I’ve got another early tomorrow, I’m going to sleep. Is this how we communicate now?_

_Wearily,  
Draco_

8th March, 2002

Draco,

Didn’t want to wake you in case you fell asleep between the owl trips, which I hope you would have. I kind of like writing like this. I mean, maybe not all the time or with such quick turnaround, but it’s a really nice kind of disruptive. Are you okay with it? We can go back to the old way.

I guess I have at least a couple of hours before you finish work so I might as well put a bit more stuff into this. Suddenly I can’t think of anything though. How are you? I liked the story you told me on Monday about the woman with the scary caffeine habits. How long before you wheel her off to the hospital and force a blood pressure cuff on her do you think? And you said Sophie was coming for a visit this weekend but I can’t remember if you said if you had anything planned. (My memory of the night is pretty much fine, I just wasn’t always paying attention. Sorry.)

Things are boring here. I spent the morning in offensive training because Evelyn thinks I need it, which is super flattering and great. So pleased in her confidence. I nailed it. I perform better in training than I do in the field. I perform well in the field too, for the record. I’ve got a bruise the size of an apple on my knee, but that’s because I landed on it bad when I was dodging a curse, not because I got hit by anything.

I’m going to Ron and Hermione’s for dinner tonight. Hermione’s been working late so Ron’s cooking, which is an experience. He’s really improving. He improvises a lot because his mum never met a recipe she followed start to finish and he thinks that’s the better way to cook, but he’s still developing his instincts. His main one at the moment is “that’s not enough garlic”. Hermione can’t watch because he never measures anything. We can all eat basically anything though and have definitely had worse meals, no matter what he does with them.

Ron said that you tried really hard to get on with them the other day, so thanks for that. He also said he’d never felt more awkward in his life, but you can’t win them all. Neither of them would mind hanging out with you again. You know, if you wanted. I know the couple of wizard friends you have are kind of far away, so I don’t know, maybe you want to play Quidditch some time. I’m sure Ginny would play two-a-side with us. Whenever we ask Hermione if she wants to play she says “I prefer to ride dragons”, which is too cool of an excuse for anyone to protest. She did not like riding that dragon, by the way. None of us did, it was insane. Good story though. Teddy loves hearing it.

Hope work was good. Obviously mine is going great.

Industriously,  
Harry

_8th March, 2002_

_Harry,_

_I think I like this kind of writing too. Especially as I’ve decided it’s not as urgent today and am taking my time. With the shorter ones, I was a little on edge waiting for your replies and definitely felt the pressure to reply quickly. Medium sized suits me well. So, probably not as long as the one you just sent me, but still more than a sentence or two._

_I feel that someone in the Auror office should be able to heal your bruise. I feel you should be able to, actually, but failing that surely there’s someone there who can do it._

_Hospitalisation for Ms Caffeinated would be imminent if I wasn’t so scared of her. She’s a powerful person to be able to do what she does. And Marlborough is a quiet place, what on Earth could she be using all this energy for?_

_Yes, Sophie is visiting tomorrow. I have nothing planned and dislike the idea that her visit will not highlight the benefits of moving back home. Even though she’s only an hour away now, she hates the drive passionately and her visits are too rare. This may be a strange request, but would you like to visit also? I have a Floo connection now so it would be very easy to pretend you’re staying with me. Terribly late notice and a horrific invitation, my parents would be appalled._

_Weasley’s feelings of awkwardness are entirely mutual. I’ll consider Quidditch, if I can be on Ginevra’s team. _

_I’m going to send this with barely any original content so as to not regress into our usual letter size and also to force you to be more concise._

_Quickly,  
Draco_

8th March, 2002

Draco,

Okay, quick one because I’ve got to go to Ron and Hermione’s in under an hour and I need a shower.

I suck at healing stuff so I thought I’d wait until I got to Ron and Hermione’s, they’re both good with bruises. I couldn’t get an Auror to do it because I was pretending I hadn’t been hurt to get a better score. It’s not cheating if I truly wasn’t affected by it, which I wasn’t.

Yeah, coming over tomorrow sounds good. Is your Floo just “Draco Malfoy’s house” or did the place come with a name?

This length is what you get for not giving me any prompts to make further conversation with, because I’m in too much of a rush to put any thought into making my own stuff up.

Hastily,  
Harry

_8th March, 2002_

_Harry,_

_Yes, it’s just “Draco Malfoy’s house”. Make sure you say that “Draco” because I don’t want you getting off at the Manor by mistake. Arrive any time after midday, so as to keep it realistic that you’re travelling from London._

_I didn’t quite expect you to say yes. I’m glad you did though. Oh Merlin, they’re going to ask you about what I was like at school. I sincerely hope your versions of de-magicking Hogwarts line up with mine, we really don’t have time to get our stories straight. I don’t want to delay it though; it’ll be at least a couple of months before Sophie visits again, knowing her._

_Calmly, obviously,  
Draco_


	12. 2002 - A Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry visits Marlborough and spends time with Draco and his friends. In some ways, it was less complicated to conduct their friendship over letters. But he's not going to let feelings ruin what they have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More drinking in this one, not as confronting as the last time.

Harry stepped outside feeling strangely self-conscious. The thought of acting remotely as he had at the start of the week was making him nervous, which made him feel as though he was being judged by some unseen observers just for being out of his house. He breathed in the cold spring air and stared at the almost cloudless sky as he put himself back together in the shape of a man whose best friend genuinely wanted him to visit. 

He took the steps to the street quickly, convincing himself that what he was feeling was excitement. He pocketed his glasses so that he could pull his helmet on and tighten the strap. He glanced around before performing the tricky charm that would give him 20/20 vision temporarily. He could only use it for a day before it started giving him a headache, but it was definitely useful for riding. The way the helmet and goggles pressed his glasses into his face from just about every angle was enough to keep him from wearing one at all until he learned the spell, which had meant he couldn’t drive where Muggle police would see him. 

He mounted the bike and pumped the kick-lever a couple of times before turning and flicking the few controls he needed and kicking it properly to life. It was an old bike even when Sirius got it and it could be fussy, but in all honesty Harry liked that. He liked that there was a trick to it and that he could get it started without relying on magic. He kicked the stand up and accelerated down the street, leaning forward unnecessarily as the speedometer climbed. 

He _had_ planned on just using the Floo, but Hermione pointed out that Muggles generally use transportation of some kind and he didn’t ride anywhere near enough. It was convenient to Apparate. Riding Sirius’s motorbike was not remotely convenient; weaving around traffic was the only way to get out of London in any reasonable time and was nerve-wracking even with charms all over the bike; his fingers started to feel numb and buzzy from the throttle about half an hour into the two hour drive; and small specks of mud from a lorry’s wheels splashed onto his goggles once he moved out of the city, not enough to justify pulling over but enough to catch his eye annoyingly. But it was the best thing in the world. He loved the thrill of squeezing through narrow gaps between cars, loved the solid feel of the bike underneath him (more comfortable than the most expensive broom), loved the physicality of being on the road and seeing it disappear under his tyres. He loved flying it too, but traffic was never quite light enough for him to justify it and he was in no rush.

He found a park right outside Draco’s house and sat back on the seat of the bike to pull his gloves off his stiff fingers. There was no one there when he started pulling off his helmet, but by the time he got it clear of his eyes Draco appeared on the footpath, arms crossed and face incredulous.

‘I gave you my Floo address,’ he said. ‘You _asked_ for my Floo address. What, in the name of Merlin’s left testicle, are you doing on a motorcycle?’

‘Apparently I’m being told off,’ Harry said. ‘Why, what are you doing on a footpath?’

Draco smirked in a way that was a million times removed from the expression he so often wore back at Hogwarts. His grey eyes were bright with amusement. 

‘You’re an absolute tosser, back to London with you now.’

‘Go on, one cup of tea,’ Harry said, pretending to believe him.

‘Oh, alright,’ Draco said. _’One_ cup, then you’re out on your arse.’

Harry grinned and climbed off the bike. He stretched, his back cracking with satisfying loudness, and followed Draco up the steps to his house. Draco, looking like he’d seen the act in a movie once, and with the strength of a Flobberworm, punched Harry in the arm. Harry assumed it was affectionate, but was too busy laughing at the weak-wristed attempt at a masculine greeting to fully absorb that even after their last meeting, Draco was performing at above-necessary friendliness.

‘Is that how posh boys punch?’ Harry laughed as he stepped through the door.

‘You _know_ how I punch, Potter,’ Draco said, completely toothlessly. He led the way to the kitchen without bothering with anything resembling a tour. ‘I cannot believe you came here on a motorcycle. How do you have your tea? You know those machines actively conspire to kill you, don’t you? Good lord, I had thought I’d seen the depths of how bad your hair could be when we were fourteen, put the helmet back on before I have some kind of attack.’

‘Milk and one sugar,’ Harry said, addressing the only relevant question in there. Draco looked strangely pleased at this. ‘Is my stuff alright here?’

‘Yes, very good,’ Draco said, not really looking at where Harry was already dropping his backpack and helmet. He filled the kettle by hand, pressed the button down to let it boil in its own time and arranged the cups fussily, all as if it had never occurred to him to use his wand. Harry smiled at his easy domesticity and sat on a stool uninvited, already feeling comfortable.

‘Is Sophie in yet?’ Harry asked.

‘At her parents’,’ Draco sighed, as if Sophie having relatives was the greatest inconvenience he had ever faced. ‘I said we’d meet her for lunch at the chippy—’ (‘Chippy,’ Harry repeated, because it sounded ridiculous in that accent, to which Draco impatiently replied, ‘Yes, it’s a shop that sells fish and chips, a chippy,’) ‘—and that I couldn’t be certain when you’d arrive, because of traffic. I didn’t realise I was telling the truth.’

‘You’re so disapproving,’ Harry observed, with wonder. ‘It’s safe, it’s _fine.’_

‘As if I give a Bowtruckle’s shit if it’s safe,’ Draco said, handing Harry his cup. ‘My concern is entirely limited to the effect it has had on your hair, seeing as I’m to stand in your proximity. Come along, let’s sit like civilised people.’

Harry followed Draco to his living room, ruffling his hair out of helmet-induced flatness as he went. He sat in a green armchair that somehow didn’t clash with any of the rest of the eclectic furniture. Draco sat on the couch and tucked his feet under him in one movement. Harry was pleased that this was his measure of what “civilised people” looked like.

Harry watched as Draco settled and then tucked his hair behind an ear to keep it out of his face. He was suddenly hit with the memory of how soft that hair had felt when he’d combed through it with his fingers and looked down at his mug as embarrassment hit him all over again.

‘I feel like I should probably apologise again,’ he said.

‘Boring and also ridiculous,’ Draco said. ‘I do, in fact, possess basic reading comprehension, and therefore am aware that you are sorry, though your lack of it yourself excuses the fact that you’ve apparently missed that I already accepted your apology. We’d never do anything else if we allowed ourselves to apologise as much as we felt we must, and seeing as I’d be doing the lion’s share I’m ruling that out completely.’

‘Okay, fine,’ Harry said. ‘I was just a—’

‘Yes, but honestly, do you think I’d waste a single second on you if I didn’t still think you were worth it?’

‘I’m worth your time now?’

‘Don’t fish, Harry, it’s very gauche.’

They smiled at each other. They couldn’t do that in letters. They couldn’t talk like that, not even with the almost rapid way they’d been writing the last couple of days. Harry felt suddenly cheated out of years of Draco’s smiles.

‘I forgot your house looked like this,’ Harry said, looking around the room so that he’d have something to say.

‘I agree, I am brilliant,’ Draco said. ‘I got the couch recently, but now I need new cushions. I’m never finished; there’s always something I can do better.’ He looked contemplatively at a floor lamp that had three globes and shades that made it look like three flowers. ‘Remark on the similarities between myself and my parents at your own peril,’ he said, as if he’d only just thought of the comparison himself.

Harry considered disobeying, just because he liked being disobedient. But no matter how long Draco grew his hair, he couldn’t remind Harry of his parents. _Mind you,_ he thought, _I shouldn’t think that would be a bad thing anymore. Not if I’m to get along with them at some point._

They talked about furniture, and more specifically the bear-skin rug, until their cups were empty and until Draco started to usher them out the door to meet Sophie. 

‘How far away’s the chippy then?’ Harry asked.

‘A few blocks,’ Draco said. ‘Much closer to her brother’s house, but I am a gentleman.’

‘Want to ride?’ Harry offered, picking up his helmet.

‘Not even a little bit,’ Draco said, eyes wide and fixed on the helmet. 

Harry didn’t put the helmet down. He tried not to take too much pleasure in Draco’s discomfort, but then decided it was far too fun to attempt to regulate himself. 

‘C’mon, it’s charmed from here to Neptune. You couldn’t hurt yourself if you tried.’

‘I’m not worried about _me_ hurting myself,’ Draco said.

‘Draco, you’ve ridden brooms high enough to go through clouds.’

Draco stared at the helmet and clenched his hands into fists, released them.

‘I’ll go slow,’ Harry said. He thought Draco was coming around. ‘What will Sophie think?’

‘Considering the state I used to get in whenever we were in a car, probably that I’ve gone mad!’ Draco said. Then he looked up to meet Harry’s eyes. ‘Let’s do it.’

Once he’d decided, Draco seemed determined to be fearless about it. He accepted Harry’s spare helmet with only three or four sentences about his hair and, though the sudden sound of the engine starting made him step backwards, he got over it immediately. 

When he was seated behind Harry, Harry told him, ‘You can hold on as tight as you need,’ meaning it to sound teasing. He winced at himself when it came out kind of flirty and decided to pretend he couldn’t hear any implication whatsoever.

‘I’m perfectly fine,’ Draco said. ‘I’ve been riding brooms since I could walk.’

Harry rolled his eyes. Draco put his hands on Harry’s hips, tentative. Harry considered pulling him forward to hold on properly, but he’d meant it when he said he couldn’t get hurt. 

‘You’ll go slow, though,’ Draco said quietly.

‘Absolutely,’ Harry said. 

He eased the bike onto the road. Draco’s hands tightened on Harry’s hips as he slipped forward to fill the gap that Harry hadn’t registered between them. When Harry sped up, Draco’s hands gripped him with more urgency. Harry had genuinely not considered that it would be . . . well, anything. He’d given other people rides and no matter how much they clung to him he didn’t think of it as anything other than a ride. With Draco, he was entirely too conscious of the legs pressed against his, the hands, god, palms on his hipbones and fingers digging into the waistband of his jeans. He followed the very simple directions and didn’t go above 30mph, and only partly because that was the speed limit. He tried to be as gentle as possible as he stopped and rocked the bike onto its kickstand. 

Draco didn’t let go. 

And then Harry recognised Sophie as she ran towards them, clapping excitedly. 

‘No _way!’_ she cried. 

Draco unfroze and clambered awkwardly off the bike. When he pulled his helmet off, he shook his hair like he thought he was in a shampoo commercial and, because life wasn’t exactly fair, his hair swished through the air and fell neatly down past his shoulders again. Harry suspected magic was involved. 

As Draco spoke grandly of his bravery and hugged Sophie with one arm (the other holding his borrowed helmet), Harry fit his own helmet in the extended compartment under the seat and hovered awkwardly, trying to fix his own hair without looking and while perfectly aware that his hair could not be fixed. He took Draco’s helmet from his hand without asking so that he could put it away too, and at the feeling of it leaving his hand Draco seemed to remember that Harry existed. 

‘Soph, this is Harry, my arch nemesis. Harry, this is Sophie, my mistress.’

‘You’d be the mistress, I’m the married one,’ Sophie protested. She smiled sunnily and shook Harry’s hand. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Harry, none of us thought you were real and I’m very glad you are.’

‘Hi,’ Harry said, a little lamely.

‘I need a pie,’ Draco announced, which was almost as ridiculous as hearing him say “chippy” and Harry struggled to suppress his smile. It was just that he couldn’t imagine him _needing_ something available instantly from beneath a warmed counter. Sophie, whose accent was also a crisp, posh southern, smiled without any recognition in her eyes. 

They all entered the shop and Draco went over to hug a woman who Harry assumed was Chelsea. She reminded him of a female Sirius, but with bigger biceps and a nose ring. She lifted Draco off the ground with her hug, which he bore with a resignation that said clearly that he was used to this kind of greeting. Harry liked her immediately.

‘This is Harry, I hate him almost as much as I hate you,’ Draco told her. ‘Harry, this is Chelsea, she is who I hate when you’re unavailable.’

‘I stole his girlfriend, what did you do to earn more hatred than that?’ Chelsea asked. 

‘Beat him at sports, mostly,’ Harry said. 

‘I never managed to get him expelled,’ Draco mused.

They ordered and sat at one of the small tables, where conversation moved almost too fast for Harry to follow. Sophie insisted on hearing more about Draco’s schooldays, as Draco predicted, so Harry told some of the safer stories, like the time when Draco had tricked him into leaving bed in the middle of the night so that the could fight to the death when they were eleven, or the time Hermione had punched Draco in the face for talking shit about their friend. Draco countered with the time he convinced everyone that Harry was insane (which to him was a success story, apparently) and the time Harry got him in detention when he was only out of bed in the middle of the night to tell a teacher that _Harry_ was the one breaking the rules.

‘You were a terror!’ Sophie said.

‘I _was_ terrific, yes,’ Draco said. ‘Oh, and once I broke his nose.’

‘You did not,’ Chelsea said.

‘He didn’t punch me, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Harry said. ‘He stepped on my fucking face.’

‘You did _not!’_ Sophie breathed, horrified. ‘Oh Draco, that is just too bad!’

‘He turned me into a slug once,’ Draco said. ‘Or something very sluglike, it was much worse than a broken nose.’

‘You got better,’ Harry said. 

It was at this point that Harry properly appreciated that sometimes you could say strange things to Muggles and they would just enjoy how strange you were being without believing it.

‘You know I was second in our year despite dedicating a very impressive amount of time to getting him expelled slash aggravating him?’ Draco said, which was a different kind of boast.

‘As if Ernie Macmillion didn’t out-perform you too,’ Harry said. 

‘That boy was a disaster,’ Draco said. He turned more to Sophie to include her and Harry felt a bit bad about how much he and Draco had been dominating the conversation, but his happiness didn’t allow him to regret it _much._ ‘You know, he used to time how long it took him to perform every activity so that he knew how many minutes he could devote to studying around eating meals and navigating the corridors with a broomstick up his arse. He told me it took him two and a half minutes to shave once. As if he ever grew a single hair below his eyebrows.’

‘Oh? When did you start shaving?’ Harry asked. 

‘Harry, there are _women_ present,’ Draco said. ‘I’m so sorry, ladies, I know you have delicate constitutions.’

Chelsea snorted in a way that was very unladylike. ‘The irony of you saying that,’ she said. 

‘I am not delicate,’ Draco said, which made the other three laugh. Draco raised his chin defensively. ‘I rode a motorcycle today, that wasn’t delicate.’

‘Yeah, nice bike,’ Chelsea said, looking very amused at Draco’s claim. ‘Bit vintage, though, where’d it come from?’

Harry told her about Sirius, editing heavily. He asked in turn about her archeology, which involved a lot more paperwork than Indiana Jones had led him to believe. Draco and Sophie had their heads together and were talking over the top of one another at great speed, so it seemed wiser to make conversation with Chelsea instead. Whenever it was Harry’s turn to speak, he was conscious of how unpracticed he was at talking to Muggles. He did it every so often when chasing a lead for work, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done so socially. Probably with Hermione’s parents, years ago, and they knew about magic besides. When he slipped and cursed with Merlin’s name, Chelsea thankfully just rolled her eyes and said that Draco and Sophie did that too.

Eventually they left the shop in favour of going back to Draco’s, where Dave was going to drop by when he finished work. Sophie pointed out directions to the loo and helpfully transferred Harry’s bag to the spare room, because apparently she felt comfortable enough to do so. Given Draco’s obvious love for her, this wasn’t really surprising. Harry didn’t intend to stay the night, the Floo would allow him to sleep in his own bed and come back for his bike the next morning, but Sophie couldn’t know that.

‘So, where are you two based at the moment?’ Harry asked.

‘Devon,’ Sophie said. ‘It’s lovely, we have a lot of roses and perennials. But it can’t be permanent, we’d have to go fairly central for that to account for travel times.’

‘Or here,’ Draco said sulkily, bringing tea over on a tray.

‘We could come back,’ Chelsea said. ‘The henges are pretty great and there’s artifacts from Normandy around. It’s just that a lot of archeologists are interested in them too, so finding new takes for papers is shithouse.’

‘I disapprove,’ Draco said.

‘Yes, darling, we know,’ Sophie said, patting his hand. ‘Chelsea has been thinking about maybe getting a job at a museum, that would be more stable! But then she couldn’t play in dirt, which would be a shame. I also like playing in dirt, it is one of the many things that brought us together.’

‘I take it you’re responsible for all the plants in here?’ Harry said.

‘Oh yes,’ Sophie said. ‘He’s barely killed any, it’s all very impressive. Dave claims his are all still living, but I just can’t imagine that’s true. He is very secretive about his flat though, perhaps his clothes are a ruse and he’s actually a very tidy person.’

‘Maybe he’s scared of the iron,’ Draco said. _‘I’m_ a little scared of the iron.’

‘You’re a little scared of everything, Drake,’ Chelsea said.

Draco made a high protesting sound. ‘This is precisely why nobody likes you.’

‘I quite like her,’ Sophie said.

‘I like her,’ Harry offered. 

‘Nobody with sense,’ Draco amended. 

‘You like her too, darling. You always ask to talk to her on the phone.’

‘To taunt her,’ Draco said, haughtily.

‘He doesn’t like to talk on the phone more than once a week,’ Sophie said, leaning close to Harry confidentially. ‘He sends me letters. It’s very romantic, I keep them in a box.’

‘I don’t want radiation,’ Draco said.

‘That’s your fault,’ Sophie said. ‘He’d never have watched James Bond if it hadn’t been a present.’

‘Harry is a James Bond,’ Draco said.

‘I’m a police officer,’ Harry said, resignedly, as he’d already decided that was his cover.

This had the unfortunate effect of Chelsea and Sophie asking for cop stories, which Harry had not been anticipating at all. Draco watched him with amusement and offered no help whatsoever as Harry shared the stories he had from helping the M.L.E.P. beat over Christmas, editing out the magic parts of them. It didn’t matter that a woman from South London had used _magic_ to pour gravy over her sister’s head when she’d insulted her roast (more than the jug held, but that wasn’t important), and the man who ran down the streets stark naked, shooting sparks into the air was edited to have been lighting fireworks as he went, in line with how the surrounding Muggles had been Obliviated to believe it went.

Dave arrived around 5 and endured hugs from Chelsea and Sophie. Chelsea was just tall enough to lift Dave off the ground too, though she didn’t do so for as long as she had Draco. Harry stood to shake Dave’s hand.

‘I’m Harry, Draco’s nemesis, who he corresponds with for nefarious reasons,’ he said.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Potter, that was actual years ago that I said that,’ Draco said.

‘It’s on the record, Malfoy. You can’t ever take the written word back.’

‘You remember the insults Draco wrote from years ago?’ Sophie asked, delighted. 

‘Well,’ Harry said, sitting back down. ‘Er . . .’ He looked at Draco, who cocked his head with a look of intense innocence that did not remotely convey innocence. ‘I mean, I’ve, you know, I’ve reread them.’

‘Aww,’ Sophie said, with even more delight.

‘Don’t you?’ Harry asked defensively.

‘Well yes, but I’m not gay.’

Chelsea nudged Sophie, who covered her mouth with both hands.

‘I _am_ gay,’ she corrected. ‘Which makes me fundamentally incompatible with Draco, much to my wife’s relief.’

‘I’m . . .’ Harry said. 

He reached for his water and took a large drink. He managed to finish it before he coughed. Chelsea patted him firmly on the back. He coughed again.

‘She does that,’ Dave said. ‘You don’t have to come up with some answer, she doesn’t expect it.’

Harry coughed again. His face felt very hot. 

‘I reread his letters too,’ Draco said, it almost sounding like a boast. ‘When I can decipher his handwriting, anyway.’

Harry didn’t dare look at Draco, but instead focused on hoping very hard that the couch would swallow him. He was afraid that if he did look, Draco would see something on his face. He was afraid that if he looked, he’d see something on Draco’s face.

They ordered curry for dinner and drank wine with it, which was the first time Harry had had that combination. When Dave went to go pick it up (‘You have the longest legs,’ Draco said, which was somehow convincing), he came back with a tray of chips as well, which went absolutely brilliantly with the korma and fine with the wine.

The wine _did_ go very well with watching _The Mummy_ and talking all the way through it. This was allowed because Draco had seen it before and had gone specifically to the video store to find something terrible for them to watch. 

‘Brendan Fraser is doing the very best with what he was given,’ Sophie remarked.

‘He’s charming,’ Chelsea agreed.

‘I actually believe he’s frightened of the mummy, even with those eyes happening,’ Dave said.

‘I think I’m bisexual,’ Draco announced. ‘I’m quite sure I’m attracted to Brendan Fraser.’

‘I don’t think you have to be bisexual to find Brendan Fraser attractive, I’m pretty sure that’s just having eyes,’ Harry said.

Dave, Sophie and Chelsea all looked at Harry, then at each other. They seemed to have some kind of telepathic conversation, and then they resolved on a conclusion.

‘No,’ Chelsea said. ‘See, we’re not attracted to men. So we’re not attracted to him. He’s _pretty,_ aesthetics are different, but no, not attraction. Unless you meant that he’s pretty, Draco?’

‘No,’ Draco said, cocking his head to the side to examine the screen, where the characters were now camping. Harry was beginning to recognise it as a mannerism. ‘I mean, he is. I think it’s more, but who can say?’

Harry felt his eyebrows go up at the mystery of the attraction of other people. And then he focused as well as he could on the screen, because there was an implication there that he didn’t know what to do with. Not the first in the last couple of days, which might not have registered if he hadn’t been so intensely looking for what could reasonably be interpreted as a sign and what was something anyone could do.

Harry felt Sophie’s eyes on him. He smiled tightly at her. Her eyes were far too understanding for his liking. He looked back at the screen, too quickly to be casual, but he thought she understood anyway. 

He didn’t like liking Draco. He didn’t want to mess everything up. He didn’t want to be stupid, get jealous, risk everything trying to get with him, be happy for a little bit, then have everything turn to shit. He was terrified of getting rejected by someone he was actually attracted to, rather than someone he just admired and liked and _thought_ that was all there was to it.

Draco sighed enormously at another lacklustre action scene and bonked his head on Harry’s shoulder.

‘Why is it always with the running? There’s just an awful lot of running in this film.’

‘There always is in adventures,’ Harry said thoughtlessly.

‘Well, you would know,’ Draco said, even more thoughtlessly.

‘Do you chase after many criminals?’ Sophie asked curiously.

‘Er, yes,’ Harry said. ‘All the time. Constantly running. You should see my calves.’

Draco snorted.

‘Should I?’ Sophie asked archly. 

‘N-no . . .’ Harry said. 

Draco snorted again. Harry elbowed him.

After the movie, they seemed to have drunk enough that all their conversations felt vitally important. The funny thing was, Harry didn’t think Draco was magically refilling the wine. There was just a lot of it. The Muggles stayed until after midnight, until Sophie braiding Draco’s hair almost sent him to sleep. And then it was just Harry and Draco.

‘Stay the night,’ Draco said. ‘You don’t want to Floo away when you’re drunk, you’ll throw up on someone’s carpet.’

‘That would be bad,’ Harry said, hesitantly.

‘Don’t look so scared,’ Draco laughed. ‘I have a spare room, it’s not like I’m offering you a repeat of Monday.’

Harry scratched at the back of his neck, which had already felt hot from wine and had definitely heated at the reminder. Draco looked completely relaxed, still sprawled on the floor, leaning against the armchair Sophie had braided his hair from. He had taken off his jumper and was wearing a very loud collared shirt, flowers of different colours and shapes clashing with each other and somehow looking really good. His lazy smile was setting off something instinctual in Harry, who was trying his best through the haze of tipsiness to not just see what he wanted to see.

‘I could stay,’ he said, carefully, trying not to look or sound nervous. He had no reason to be nervous, he would only be nervous if he thought there was something going on, and there was nothing going on. _Probably,_ his stupid mind whispered to him.

‘Good,’ Draco said. ‘Now carry me to my bed, I cannot possibly walk.’

‘Are you that drunk?’ Harry asked.

‘No, I’m that pretty. I shouldn’t have to walk anywhere.’

‘Alright,’ Harry laughed. He stood up. This seemed like an excellent idea. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but he was sure it was. He liked doing physical things when he’d been drinking; a few months ago he’d gotten into a push-up competition with George and had kept going even after George tapped out.

‘Will you really?’ Draco said. ‘I won’t move to make it easier for you. You’re not allowed to use magic.’

‘You say this like I’ve never picked someone unconscious up in a burning building while my wand was busy keeping us from suffocating.’

‘Oh,’ Draco said.

‘Last chance to back out,’ Harry said. He waggled his fingers illustratively.

‘I’m not backing out,’ Draco said, defiantly. He now looked alert, but not uncomfortable. He was very deliberately keeping his positioning. 

Harry grinned at him, then gathered up both his hands. He nudged Draco’s legs into a more stable position, put his foot down on Draco’s feet to keep them still, then pulled his hands, ducked underneath him and hugged his knees to him. Draco’s head bumped against his shoulderblades, until he tried to push himself up straight, laughing madly.

‘You’re not being a very good unconscious person,’ Harry said, shrugging his shoulder to bounce Draco more securely. Draco obediently went limp and tried to smother his laughter.

‘This is insane,’ Draco said. ‘I thought you’d pick me up in your arms or something.’

‘Not a chance, I want to be able to use my back tomorrow.’ 

Harry started to climb the stairs towards Draco’s room. Draco put his hands on Harry’s waist, which was a weird sensation because they were upside down.

‘What are you doing?’ Harry asked.

‘Avoiding grabbing your arse,’ Draco said.

‘I love how you say that,’ Harry laughed. ‘Am I actually putting you in your bedroom or am I letting you down in the hallway.’

‘In, please,’ Draco said, imperiously. Harry found it frankly amazing that he was able to put on airs in a situation like this. He opened the door and stepped in, feeling a little like he was breaking the rules. He kept Draco on his shoulder as he said hello to Cassiopeia and asked her about her day.

‘Harry,’ Draco said.

‘You’re such a pretty girl, I bet you spend as much time grooming yourself as Draco does.’

 _‘Harry,’_ Draco said. He still hadn’t quite managed to stop laughing, so Harry felt assured that this was still pretty funny.

‘I’d give you a treat if I had any on me but I didn’t think, sorry.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Potter,’ Draco said.

‘Don’t squirm,’ Harry said.

‘I’ve had quite enough of being carried now, thank you!’

Harry laughed and poured Draco carefully onto his bed. Which left him looking at a wine-flushed Draco collapsed on his bed with his hair falling out of its braid and his shirt riding up. Harry turned quickly back around to look at Cassiopeia again. 

‘I bet you could carry Draco too,’ he told her, quite matter-of-fact for how completely flustered he felt. 

‘You just write to me so my owl will come to you, don’t you?’ Draco said. 

Harry turned to say something sarcastic, but Draco propped up on his elbows on his bed was just as affecting as Draco on his back. He laughed instead, because he had to make some kind of response. He kept his eyes very carefully on Draco’s, even though that was still plenty to be getting on with.

‘Anyway, I’m going to . . .’ Harry pointed two fingerguns at the doorway and started to move.

‘Hold on a moment,’ Draco said. 

He stood up, which Harry thought defeated the purpose of being carried, and walked over. Harry smiled as guilelessly as he could. Draco straightened Harry’s hoodie strings and Harry’s heart beat wildly in his chest as he watched Draco’s hands. His eyes darted up to Draco’s when the strings were even and Draco’s long, pale fingers were still around them. Draco leaned forward slightly. Harry kept very still, unsure if he was imagining it. Draco’s eyes dropped to Harry’s lips and he moved slowly closer. 

Harry stepped back. Draco let the strings spill from his fingers and put his hands behind his back, suddenly standing very straight.

‘Not while . . .’ Harry said, voice strained. ‘Not while we’re drunk.’

‘Quite,’ Draco said. ‘Well, I’d better get to bed.’

Harry hesitated, hand on the door, looking back at Draco. He wanted to explain that he didn’t want to take advantage, that he didn’t want to be Draco’s experiment, that if they were going to do it, he wanted their first kiss to be special. He wanted to take it back and kiss the serious look from Draco’s face. He wanted to say sorry.

‘Good night,’ he said instead.

‘Good night,’ Draco said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Harry went back to the spare room, feeling weighted down by the heaviness of his feelings. He dragged his hands down his face, wondering if he’d done the right thing. This could mess up their friendship just as much as kissing him might have. He transfigured a clock to a glass so that he could drink several cups of water and hopefully put off the hangover, then put it back as it had been. He felt strange, climbing into a bed that belonged to Draco after that. He transfigured his jeans into pyjama pants so that he felt a little more okay with it. And then he felt like he was betraying Draco by using magic in a home that was so free of it. 

He groaned into his pillow and tried to stop thinking about all the ways he could be fucking up. He thought it would take him ages to get to sleep after all that, but it wasn’t long before he slipped gratefully into unconsciousness.

*

Harry woke up naturally, for the first time in a _very_ long time. When he came to full awareness, he could hear the gentle sounds of someone moving around downstairs. He was pretty confident that this hadn’t actually woken him up, but it was reassuring that he didn’t have to tiptoe around waiting for Draco to wake up. There was a large part of him that wanted to Apparate away and not face Draco, but he wasn’t going to do that. If he was going to make sure that their friendship was undamaged, he had to smooth things over now. If Draco could face him the morning after Harry had done much more than imply he’d like to kiss him, then Harry could do this. 

He went downstairs, still in his transfigured pyjamas. Draco smiled as he entered, and it didn’t look at all forced. 

‘There’s Panadol on the bench, hang on, I’ll get you a glass of water,’ he said. ‘I’m making eggs, I hope you like eggs, Chelsea is a vegan and Sophie is in front of Chelsea, it’s all very disappointing.’

‘I like eggs,’ Harry said, accepting the glass and painkillers. Despite not feeling hungover in the rest of his body he did have a small red wine headache that he had been prepared to just ignore. Harry liked seeing signs of Draco being considerate.

‘I can only do scrambled,’ Draco warned.

‘I like scrambled.’ Draco smiled and turned back to his pan. ‘That sounds like a recipe for disaster, with Sophie pretending to be vegan for Chelsea.’

‘Oh, no,’ Draco said, gesturing with the spatula and sending a bit of scrambled egg flying. ‘It’s not that at all, Chelsea knows. It’s just a solidarity thing. And also so they don’t have to cook two different things.’ He stooped to clean up the egg and Harry managed to neither laugh nor check out his arse. ‘Did you know they make vegan eggs? And vegan milk and butter and such, so I tried to make scrambled eggs like that once. It was a _terrible_ idea, and of course I couldn’t use magic to make it edible because then I’d have to explain how I made it work. Tea?’

‘Please,’ Harry said. ‘You really don’t use magic around the house, do you?’

‘Oh, it’s not a rule or anything,’ Draco said, eyeing Harry’s pyjamas knowingly. Harry looked at Draco’s clothes in return; he looked like he was dressed for the day with his warm, dark green jumper and tidily braided hair. ‘I just can’t be in the habit of, I don’t know, using my wand on a stubborn lamp, or I’ll end up reflexly going to do it when someone’s over. And it’s not really any more effort to make eggs or tea with your hands, not unless you’re trying to multitask with quite a few things.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry said, even though he used magic for everything. This was the reverse of what he might have expected his and Draco’s positions to be. 

Draco served the eggs and motioned with his head for Harry to come with him to the table. Harry grabbed the tea first and Draco smiled his appreciation. 

‘This is really good,’ Harry said, a couple of bites in.

‘Do you think so?’ Draco asked. ‘I think it’s time I learned how to make other kinds too, but I wasn’t going to subject you to culinary experimentation.’

 _No, not that kind of experimentation,_ Harry thought to himself. He wondered if he was being unfair. But Draco had called himself straight before and had never so much as implied otherwise until Harry had drunkenly come onto him. It seemed like Draco had enjoyed feeling wanted and was now playing with a new possibility. Harry didn’t think he was even doing it consciously, he didn’t think Draco would risk ruining their friendship any more than Harry would. And that was why Harry had to keep a level head, because he’d love to be Draco’s experiment, would love to spend a weekend where Draco touched and kissed and figured out whether he wanted to be with a man, but he didn’t think he could go back to just being friends after having something more. He wasn’t even sure if he was going to be able to ignore his feelings and just stay friends, but he thought that was an easier task.

‘Are you okay?’ Draco asked, pausing in pressing small amounts of egg to the back of his fork with his knife. ‘I generally like to be complimented much more than that, you had better say some nice things or I won’t be bothering cooking for you again.’

‘They’re nice and yellow,’ Harry said. ‘And fluffy.’

‘I think it’s because I use eggs that a local man provides, his chickens have quite the run of the place. The colour that is, the fluffiness is all in my skill.’

‘Good amount of salt,’ Harry said, searching for other things to say.

Draco nodded sagely. Harry watched the dainty way he ate and was confident that he’d never catch Draco making someone wait for him to talk while he chewed and swallowed. He imagined Draco and Ron eating side by side and privately fell to pieces.

‘I like your tablecloth?’ he said, now scraping the barrel of compliments.

‘Yes, so do I,’ Draco said, proving that this was an acceptable thing to say even though it wasn’t directly related to the eggs. ‘Sophie’s mother gave it to me because Sophie doesn’t have a suitably sized table for it. And she loves me as the son-in-law she should have had.’

‘Naturally,’ Harry said. ‘Are we seeing them again today?’

‘She has lunch with her parents, but maybe this afternoon before they make the drive back.’ Draco saw Harry’s face and stopped. ‘What is it?’

‘I have lunch with the Weasleys,’ Harry said. ‘Every Sunday. I could Floo over and pretend I’d been here the whole time?’

‘I have encountered the Weasleys before, Harry. I doubt you’re getting out of there for afternoon tea.’

‘I could tell them I have plans.’

‘If I’m to get along with them at some point, I can’t have them thinking I’ve stolen you away from them.’ Draco smoothed his hand down his braid and twirled the end around. ‘No, stay as long as you like of course, but don’t rearrange your Sunday for me.’

‘You’re—’ _worth rearranging my Sunday for,_ Harry nearly said. ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ he said instead.

Draco looked amused. He placed his cutlery neatly together and leaned back in his seat with his tea.

‘Don’t treat this as the last time we’re to see each other,’ he said. ‘Unless I’ve scared you off.’

‘No,’ Harry said hurriedly. He hesitated, unsure whether to bring up the almost-kiss, then decided he’d torture himself if he didn’t. ‘Look, about last night—’

‘Oh, I don’t think that needs discussion,’ Draco said. ‘Now we’re even on that score, and we can surely put it behind us.’

‘Right,’ Harry said. Then he continued doggedly on. ‘It’s not that I don’t understand, you’re thinking about . . . that stuff, and I was just there. But we’re friends and I think that’s all there is to it, you like me as a person and it’s getting your wires crossed.’

‘Do you think I’m completely ignorant of my own feelings?’ Draco asked, and this was what Harry had been nervous about, that they’d fight. It’s not that he had never fought with Draco before, because clearly that wasn’t the case, but he didn’t know how with how they were standing now.

‘To be honest, yes,’ Harry said. ‘You’re still figuring all that shit out, you’re probably only thinking about it because of how I was on Monday, it’s just not as simple as it might have been.’

‘Was I “just there” for you?’

‘I don’t want to mess up what we have!’ Harry said. ‘I thought you didn’t want to talk about this!’

‘I _didn’t,_ I was quite happy to quietly get over your rejecting me in my own time and pretend everything was fine for the sake of “what we have”,’ Draco said, again exhibiting rather vicious air quotes with the hand that wasn’t holding his tea, ‘but if you insist on belittling my feelings just because you don’t have any, then I can _not_ just sit here and take it.’

Harry looked hopelessly at the ceiling. ‘Merlin’s sake, Draco.’

Draco hugged himself with his free arm and sipped his tea, looking away at the wall instead of at Harry. Harry stared at the way he was fuming helplessly. He didn’t know how to fix this.

He tried, he really did try to find words. But all he could think of was more of the same. He wanted to tell Draco that he had feelings for him, but that would make everything a million times worse. He wanted to repeat that Draco was just trying to figure out his feelings because someone he liked had made a move on him, that that was a natural response regardless of sexuality. He wanted to tell him that their friendship was more important to him than anything else in his life and he was horrified that that felt true. 

Draco didn't say anything either. He didn't even look at him, just kept staring at the wall with an intensity that made Harry worry that he was going to set it on fire wandlessly. Harry started to feel like he was imposing, that Draco mustn't want him to be here anymore. He still couldn't think of anything to say that would make it better.

‘Should I go?’ he asked quietly.

‘Yes, I think that’s best,’ Draco said, still not looking. 

Harry waited a moment longer, hoping for Draco to change his mind and knowing he wouldn’t. Then he got up, transfigured his pants back into jeans, grabbed his jacket and left. He took his time with his helmet to give Draco plenty of time to come outside and stop him from leaving, but eventually he couldn’t linger any longer. He kick-started the bike and drove away from Marlborough in the quieter direction, away from London, so that he could change gears and fly safely in the direction of The Burrow. Lunch with his family would distract him from how he was feeling. It always did.


	13. Chapter 13

Draco hadn’t apologised, but then again, neither had Harry. He remained unconvinced that it was for him to apologise at all, because he was the one with the hurt feelings, anyway. Sophie insisted that it _was_ his turn to apologise, once he’d managed to tell her a heavily edited account of what had happened between them. She also insisted that their willingness to travel such a distance for each other meant something very significant, because Draco couldn’t tell her that he’d Apparated to London. He supposed it probably cost him as much as driving, seeing as he also couldn’t tell her how trepidatious he was about being seen by fellow wizards. 

But after leaving it a week, Draco felt bereft of something vital, even though he’d waited almost a month between letters most of the times they’d written to each other and a week shouldn’t have rated compared to that. The week also had the effect of making him feel as though he’d left it too long. The second week did not improve either of these feelings, and his life was nowhere near full enough to distract him from his misery.

And the problem wasn’t just that he was afraid that he’d lost his friend, though that was certainly enough to be getting on with. The problem was that he had considered what Harry had said and he had only been mindlessly angry about it half the time he considered it, so he’d had plenty of time left over to wonder if he was right. He’d come to the conclusion, as he had on several previous occasions, that Harry Potter didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. 

When Draco was nine, he managed to win over all the Pure-Blood children that were pushed together in anticipation of their sharing the Slytherin common room one day, all but one. Before that, he had probably also thought about Blaise in an identically reverential way, but it was knowing that he couldn’t win him over so easily that solidified it for Draco. It wasn’t fear, not exactly, but it felt a lot like fear, or maybe intimidation. Blaise was unattainable, which made Draco want to be his friend desperately, but he knew not to show that or he’d fuck it up. He forced himself never to think about him until Blaise was in front of him, at which point he’d wonder if he could ever be as cool as that, if he could ever have a friend as cool as that, and he watched him with that same rapturous fear all the way through school. Maybe if he had asked, Blaise could have told him what that meant, because if anyone knew when someone was in love with him, it was Blaise Zabini. It didn’t feel the same as liking girls, and Draco didn’t think about it when he could avoid it, so it hadn’t triggered any kind of realisation. After all, Blaise was alluring to everyone. Attraction didn’t have to be relevant.

When Draco was fourteen, he persuaded the Durmstrang students to sit with him at dinner, even though they were older, even though one was an international Quidditch star. Everyone fell over themselves for Krum and he wasn’t any different. He’d always been susceptible to being starstruck, even when the celebrity wasn’t in the room. Sometimes he’d looked at the posters on the walls of his room (framed, arranged tastefully, a marriage of a teenage need to decorate and a parental need to keep things just so), and he’d felt as thrilled as if the Seeker for the Tornadoes was in the room with him, talented and masculine and everything Draco wanted to be. And Krum _had_ been in the room with him, and it was thrilling and distracting, but everyone felt that way and besides, he had other things to think about.

Things like Harry Potter, who he had failed to befriend in a way much more severe than the way he hadn’t even attempted to befriend Blaise. Harry Potter, who became the youngest Seeker in a century because of something Draco did. Harry Potter, who made him furiously jealous and who he could be as cruel as he wanted to and who dominated his thoughts every year he had known him, every _minute_ he had known him. 

Nothing was better than seeing perfect Potter get _ugly_ for him, all low and spiteful the way his stupid fans would never believe he could get. No matter how many times Harry beat him and humiliated him, Draco was drawn back to try again, to be hated more than Harry hated anyone else, and with such strong competition in that race. Nothing made Draco feel so alive as having Harry’s eyes on him. Not until he won Harry’s friendship, and wasn’t it amazing how the thrill of that never quite wore off, because it felt like something he wasn’t entitled to and his carefully delayed responses with his carefully sparkly life were almost always well received, and his honesty was received, if anything, even better. Harry carried Draco’s letters in his pocket until he replied, he’d said that once. Harry remembered Draco’s exact phrasing from letters sent years previously. Harry once called Draco his best friend, and he hadn’t even thought about it.

Liking girls was easy. Girls were so ready to be seduced, they loved being flattered and treated and they expected his attraction. Girls smelled nice and laughed at his jokes and once he’d asked a Ravenclaw girl in the year below him the time and she’d panicked and said “50 to four,” instead of 3:10. Draco definitely still liked girls, and it was probably that that made it so easy to ignore the giddy, _worshipful_ feeling he sometimes got around boys. Up until Harry had drunkenly shown him what it was like to be wanted by a man, Draco had never consciously thought about what that might be like. 

He thought about it now. 

He thought about how he’d feel if that Tornadoes Seeker singled him out in that entitled way celebrities could, and how it might be to have those kinds of hands on him, rough, assertive, strong. Even Natalia, who had been anything but gentle with him, had had long, slim fingers, and a soft belly, and had never overwhelmed him.

He thought about what he’d do if Blaise showed up and looked at him with those eyes, brown in a way nothing else in the world was brown, brown like something dangerous and liquid, brown like being trapped in darkness and _liking_ it. Would Draco be able to kiss him? Would Blaise kiss him back? Or would he be amused at yet another person falling at his feet?

He thought about going to Harry’s doorstep and apologising, about agreeing that their friendship was too precious, about a million small touches that would never amount in anything but which would fizz in Draco’s mind with such pleasure that he could happily spend a lifetime looking forward to the next one with no hope of anything more.

(He thought about something more.)

And sometimes he wondered if he was making it all up because he so liked feeling wanted and it was an easy fantasy and his memories could fit into this shape. They used to sit differently in his head, so maybe he just wanted the narrative that he didn’t think he’d ever bother to test. If it wasn’t to be Harry (and it really wasn’t to be Harry), then Draco would probably fall in love with a nice girl and marry her and that would be fine. The odds of him finding a man who he liked, who happened to also like men and who was either a wizard or who would be okay with the existence of magic, those odds were much less comfortable and he didn’t like being rejected. And he didn’t think a man would be as sympathetic to how hopelessly broken the war had left him. So it was probably the most irrelevant sexuality discovery of all sexuality discoveries, if it even was that, because he was probably just going to keep acting as though he was straight anyway.

In the end, he didn’t have to seek Harry out. Harry wasn’t exactly the type to dither about on the sidelines, waiting for someone else to make the first move.

Draco was working, flirting _enormously_ with the middle-aged woman who ran the garden centre Sophie used to work at because he liked the fact that he could make his customers’ days a little bit brighter when they were only expecting a coffee, when Harry walked in the door, eyes wild and hair fucking awful from his helmet. Draco abruptly stood up straight and stopped his stream of incessant compliments.

‘Are you alright, Draco?’ Sandra asked.

‘Always am,’ Draco replied absently. Harry caught his eye and waved, as if nothing at all were wrong between them and as if he often just popped by. ‘Sorry, Sandra, did you want another biscuit?’

‘He’s very handsome,’ Sandra whispered, making Draco stop staring at Harry and drop his eyes back down to Sandra. 

‘I hate him quite a lot,’ Draco said. ‘But I had better see to him before he terrorises someone with his hair. Sorry, did you say you wanted a biscuit?’

Sandra shooed him away and Draco attempted to look a lot more confident than he was as he approached Harry. Harry, presumably having heard Draco’s comment on his hair, was rumpling it with a hand to make it a different kind of disastrous.

‘I quit my job,’ Harry said, before Draco could go about greeting him or behaving civilly at all. ‘I quit my job and it’s basically your fault, so I came here to tell you that I quit my job.’

‘I have been nothing but supportive about your job!’ Draco protested. ‘Granger and Weasley told you to quit, you’re getting me mixed up with Granger and Weasley and I don’t appreciate it.’

‘You wanted me to quit my job,’ Harry said.

‘You hate your job,’ Draco said.

Harry grinned at him. Draco reminded himself that he was perfectly happy with their arrangement and there was no need to make a scene by kissing Harry like it was a romantic comedy.

An older couple who came into the cafe most mornings squeezed past Harry so that they could leave. Draco’s eyes darted to their plates and mugs that he needed to clean up.

‘It’s all very well that you’ve become a vagabond, but I am still gainfully employed. Sit down and I’ll get you a cup of tea, I’ve only got,’ Draco consulted his watch, ‘Forty minutes left. Good lord, did you ride down here? You absolute maniac, I’m going to bring you a biscuit.’

Harry sat down obediently and Draco cleared the recently empty table on his way to get Harry tea and a biscuit. He wiped down tables, and convinced a plumber that he wanted extra bacon, and made a coffee with three more shots of espresso than he was supposed to because the caffeine lady frightened him. He took out the bins, and loaded the dishwasher, and made Dave a hot chocolate to go before he’d even reached the counter. Harry ostensibly read a magazine which made outrageous claims about the goings on in the celebrity world, but Draco felt his eyes on him, especially when he talked. 

Finally, Draco’s shift was over. He had a much briefer handover with the next coworker than usual, then approached Harry’s table.

‘Come along, you man of leisure. We’ll go have a cup of tea at mine and you can tell me what brought on this insanity. I’m assuming it wasn’t careful consideration.’

Harry followed Draco outside and then offered him his spare helmet again. Draco pressed his lips together, then accepted. 

‘People are going to think I’m a hoon,’ he said. 

Harry just got on with starting his monstrosity, as if responding to that wasn’t worth his time. Draco thought it rather barbaric that the thing didn’t have a key, or perhaps a spell. He climbed on cautiously and held on to Harry’s hips again. Then, remembering the last time and also movies he’d seen, he wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist instead. Harry awkwardly patted one of his hands and Draco tried not to laugh, or not audibly at least. 

Draco’s house was about a 20 minute walk from the cafe and the bike did it in what felt like seconds. Just like the last time, Draco’s legs felt wobbly and strange and entirely ill-equipped to climb off the bike. Part of it was the experience of riding, which he didn’t hate at all and which gave him the same almost boneless feeling that he got after flying. But a much larger part was being pressed so closely to Harry. His feet felt glued to the supports they rested on; his arms refused to release Harry’s waist. 

Harry was warm, his back was a firm line to lean into, his leather jacket was soft under Draco’s hands. 

Harry patted Draco’s hand hesitantly again. Draco swallowed and made himself sit back. He wasn’t quite smooth on the dismount because the bike seemed wider than he expected every time he confronted it, but he got off without incident and composed himself as he took his helmet off. He watched Harry take his own off, then pat his pockets looking for his glasses. 

‘I thought you couldn’t see without those,’ Draco said. ‘Or are they some kind of fashion statement? I don’t want to despair for your taste that much, but you never know.’

Harry snorted and looked up at Draco. Draco took the glasses from his hands before he could put them on, just to prolong the experience of looking at his _very_ green eyes without glass in the way.

‘I use a charm,’ Harry said. He held his hand out for them. Draco put them on instead.

‘Good _god,’_ he said. ‘Are you blind? I’ve had them on a second and a half and I have a headache.’

‘So give them back, idiot,’ Harry said.

‘If you admit they look better on me.’

‘Of course they do, I’m still the one who needs them.’

Harry lifted them carefully from Draco’s nose and took them back. Draco shivered. Apparently that was where he was at with this whole thing, shivering when Harry almost-but-not-quite touched him. He turned away so that he could take the little steps up to his front door and let them both in. _You said you could just pine quietly,_ he told himself sternly.

‘Now, tell me you didn’t march into the Head Auror’s office and make a scene,’ Draco said as he filled the kettle. ‘No, tell me you didn’t stand on your desk and make a scene, I have just now realised my standards were being set too high. I have to imagine there was some kind of scene.’

‘There wasn’t a scene,’ Harry said, rolling his eyes. 

‘Can you do something with your hair? It’s assaulting me.’

Harry rolled his eyes much harder, moving his whole head with it. But he did shove both hands in his hair to correct it. Draco pulled the hair-tie out of his plait and shook his own hair out, as he assumed it had been likewise ruined. And then he left it out, because Harry had complimented it once and—no, he really couldn’t go on like this, it was utterly intolerable. 

‘What happened?’ Draco asked, tying his hair up into a careless bun. ‘I need to sit down, I’m not made to be a person who stands up for hours at a time and they won’t let me have a chaise longue behind the counter.’

They took their teas to the living room and Draco took his shoes off so that he could sit cross-legged in his armchair and flex his toes free of numbness. Harry looked at him with fondness. He kept doing that during both other times they’d met, as though Draco’s mannerisms were something to be fond of. As if they hadn’t been mutually staring at each other for years. None of Harry’s mannerisms were foreign to Draco, though it was a novel experience to have the nicer and more relaxed ones directed at him. Though, admittedly, Draco was a completely different person in private than he was when he was showing off in the Great Hall and Harry was too straight-forward to alter himself so dramatically.

‘I didn’t make a scene,’ Harry said. Draco scoffed in disbelief. ‘I didn’t! I just went into Robard’s office and I said, “I appreciate you giving me a job and being good to me, but if I have to be an Auror for another hour I’m going to hex my penis off and I really don’t want to do that.” And then he thanked me for my service and I flew here.’

‘You did not,’ Draco said.

‘I did. I didn’t even say “cock”, I said “penis”, like a right parsnip.’

‘I would like to think, had it really been my influence that put you up to it, that you would have done that with a bit more grace.’

‘Yeah, I put my own spin on it.’

Draco took a sip of tea. He considered the fact that Harry had come all this way, that in all likelihood he was the first person Harry had told. Surely, had he gone to Granger and Weasley, he’d still be talking with them about it. Harry was buzzing with energy. He looked a bit manic actually, but it wasn’t a bad look on him. A manic Harry Potter could probably save the world. All the same, Draco wished he would stop tapping his foot.

‘I didn’t tell you to quit your job,’ Draco said.

‘No,’ Harry acknowledged. ‘But, okay, I was thinking about all this. Thinking about you, what you’ve done here, about your brilliant house and your friends and you’ve got a job in a cafe and you like your parents and you did it all yourself! Which is great, really, I’m so happy for you and I mean that in a really sincere way, I don’t resent your happiness at all,’ Harry looked desperate for Draco to understand him on this point, so Draco said, ‘I know,’ and Harry was able to continue. ‘It’s just that I haven’t been happy. Did you know that? I didn’t really know that. It’s probably obvious.’

‘I don’t think there’s such a thing as “being happy”,’ Draco said. ‘Sophie once said that was her goal in life, to be happy, and Chelsea said came over all cross, said that if that was her goal then any unhappy day would be a failure and that was a terrible state to be in.’

‘Okay, sure,’ Harry said. ‘But I think I’ve actually been depressed, really.’

‘Ah, yes. Well that’s not to be desired.’

Harry stopped tapping his foot and leaned back into the couch to look at the ceiling. Draco watched him breathing quietly and thought that _he_ had never looked so alive when he was depressed. But then, he would probably make a prettier corpse. He’d look prettier languishing too. It would just be _sad_ to see Harry languish.

‘See, the thing is,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve only ever fought dark wizards and played Quidditch. Actually, I’ll add looking after Teddy and Victoire to that, because that is honestly and truly the best thing I’ve ever done. But I can’t be with them all the time.’

‘You’re a lot more than that,’ Draco said.

‘Thanks,’ Harry said, dismissively. ‘My point is that you did all this. You changed your life. None of this was what you’d planned and you’re happy, so I don’t have to be an Auror just because it’s the closest thing to what my dad was, or because it was what I told McGonagall I wanted to do, or because I’m pretty good at it.’

‘That’s very reasonable.’

‘I don’t know what I want to do next.’

‘Didn’t Granger write you a list?’

‘I can’t look at that.’

‘Naturally.’

Harry smiled at Draco hopefully. ‘Do you think I’m insane?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Draco said. Harry’s face fell, just a little. ‘Have done since we were 11. I’m probably right, too.’ Harry started smiling again, brighter than before. ‘Nobody ever believed me, which was very aggravating. I’ll have the last laugh if I have to wheel you into St Mungos myself.’

Draco reached over and put his hand on Harry’s knee. He pushed it slightly back and forth, as he imagined one might if they wanted to show affection without being soppy.

‘You’ve seen enough of that nonsense to last you a lifetime, you nutter. Find some other way to feel useful, seeing as that’s apparently a prerequisite to your existence.’

Harry covered Draco’s hand with his own. This had the uncomfortable effect of making Draco continue to lean more than was comfortable. He sighed at the ridiculousness of it, withdrew his hand and took a seat next to Harry on the couch. Then he stood up again. 

‘Can I brush your hair, it’s driving me almost as mad as you are.’

Harry grimaced.

‘Oh, come on. I’m gentle.’

‘I guess,’ Harry said doubtfully. 

Draco got the sense that he wasn’t much in the practice of saying no. Still, this was something that Sophie did for him and he couldn’t help but think of it as an essential part of friendship now. He took two steps towards his bathroom before he remembered that he was a wizard in the company of another wizard and just summoned the brush. He sat back down on his knees and started, very carefully, from the ends of Harry’s hair. He immediately ran into knots, but he knew how to be gentle about it. He had a very low tolerance for pain and could accommodate even this nest with empathy.

‘Talk, Harry, I’m concentrating too hard on this nonsense to also entertain you. Tell me how you’re feeling about all this.’

‘Can I write it down?’ Harry joked.

‘I’ll drop it if you like, but you did come an awful long way to say so little.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry sighed. ‘Ow, by the way.’

‘I said I was gentle, not a miracle worker,’ Draco said.

‘It’s just that there’s _so many_ bad people out there,’ Harry said. ‘And they’ve got magic! I know it doesn’t fix everything, but, you know.’

‘Mmm,’ Draco said.

‘It doesn’t stop. I knew, okay, that I’d either kill Voldemort or be killed by him, and apparently both was also an option, but that was a pretty clear goal. Horrible, but there was an end-point. And I was sitting in my office this morning and I realised that I’d never _finish_ catching bad guys.’

‘Sorry, both was an option?’ Draco repeated.

‘Oh, I died. Your mum was there, I thought she might have said.’

‘She said you somehow survived the killing curse, but . . .’

Harry shook his head, which Draco had to move with so as to not rip through way too many knots. ‘I came back.’

‘Not enough to vanquish You Know Who, you had to go after the very concept of death,’ Draco said, voice higher with disbelief.

‘It sounds a lot more impressive than it was,’ Harry said, scratching at his neck. ‘I won’t get the option again, I’m pretty sure.’

Oh, so Harry was possibly immortal. Wonderful. Draco tried to wrap his head around that, but it was so completely impossible that he just gave up. He’d deal with that later.

‘I don’t know, maybe I was wrong to quit,’ Harry said. ‘I never killed anyone as an Auror, Evelyn screamed down St Mungos one time because I shielded a perp from a collapsing roof and let myself get hit by a curse. I couldn’t do it, though. Everyone always says I was right to, but I started killing Voldemort when I was 12 years old and I just systematically destroyed piece after piece of his soul until he was dead. I didn’t even do it all by myself, I let other people be stained in that way too. It stains. You can’t ever not be a murderer after you’ve murdered someone. And it doesn’t matter who it was.’

Draco mechanically kept pulling the brush through Harry’s hair, over the parts that he’d teased the knots out of. He opened his mouth to try to object, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that.

‘It was a war,’ he said tonelessly, because that was all there was to it. ‘You, I saw you, you gave him a chance to repent. Who even does that?!’

Harry shrugged. Draco smoothed his stupid hair back and leaned his forehead to the back of his head.

‘I am so _fucking_ glad you quit your job.’

‘Hey,’ Harry said, reaching back to pat at Draco’s leg. ‘Everything’s okay.’

Draco composed himself and kneeled upright again. Then he put down the brush and stood.

‘I’m going to have a little upset,’ he said, starting to walk backwards towards the stairs. ‘Won’t be long.’

‘You’re going to what?’ Harry said. ‘Wait, come back.’

‘I’ll just be a moment,’ Draco said, quite brightly he thought. ‘I’ll have a little upset and then I’ll make more tea.’

Harry got up all in one movement. He was half a head shorter than Draco and yet still filled the room. Draco backed up so that he was one stair higher. Harry surged forward and grabbed his hands where they’d been awkwardly hovering. He pulled Draco down and back into the living room. 

‘I don’t want you to go be sad by yourself in another room,’ he said.

‘Had there been any other conceivable excuse I would have taken it,’ Draco said. ‘As it stands, I’m going to embarrass us both if I don’t . . .’

He motioned with his head to go, but didn’t take his hands out of Harry’s. Harry looked concerned. It was an intimidating amount of attention to be under. Draco tried to think bland thoughts. He’d wanted to just get his emotions out of the way, because if he didn’t they’d just come up again later. He could persevere a little longer.

‘I’m not embarrassed,’ Harry said. He put his hands carefully on Draco’s shoulders. ‘I could be, it might happen, but I don’t think that’s enough reason to go hide away either. Tell me to fuck off if you need to, if you really want to go. I’m just . . . I’m here, and if anyone’s going to get it . . .’

Draco stopped staring vacantly into space and looked at Harry instead. His face was painfully sincere. Draco believed him, so he didn’t struggle away. 

‘Are you okay?’ Harry murmured.

Draco opened his mouth to lie, but the edges of his composure crumbled and he had to swallow. ‘No,’ he whispered, voice rough with the tears that he could no longer blink back. He let his chin fall to his chest and made a distressed noise he couldn’t hold back.

Harry pulled Draco into a hug. Draco clung to his lower back and leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder. His body felt tense with anguish and loose with helplessness at the same time. Harry didn’t stroke his back or do anything except hold him, sometimes tightening his arms when the shakes from Draco’s crying got particularly bad. He didn’t let go, even when Draco stopped crying and was just leaning into him. 

‘Sorry,’ Draco said, voice still somewhat broken.

‘Want to talk about it?’

Draco shrugged. Harry’s hold on him didn’t loosen.

‘I try not to think about any of it. When I do, I just . . .’ He trails off. ‘It happens even when I’m not thinking about anything _remotely_ relevant.’

‘Sorry, I brought it up.’

‘No, it’s a good thing. I can’t talk about it with anyone, not even my parents.’

‘Because you’re worried about what they might say?’

‘Because I don’t want them to think they damaged me. They’re hurting enough.’

Harry squeezed him tighter. A few more tears fell from Draco’s eyes, but not enough for him to call it crying again. He curled his fingers into Harry’s jacket and blinked to try and stop his eyes from being red.

They stood together for a long time. Harry only let go when Draco dropped his arms first. 

Draco pointed his wand at Harry’s shoulder to clean away the dampness. 

‘Do you want to talk about something else?’ Harry offered. ‘I can make the tea.’

‘My mother would be horrified, but go on then.’

‘How are your parents going?’ Harry asked, quite politely.

‘Mum wants to have a book club,’ Draco sighed. ‘So Dad—what?’

Harry had made a strange face, which Draco found especially odd because he’d _asked._

‘No, it’s just,’ Harry said. ‘You’re not doing the “my mother slash father” thing.’

‘I’ve been more informal than that with you, honestly,’ Draco said, rolling his eyes.

‘I didn’t realise it was a formality thing.’

‘Well it is,’ Draco said. ‘They’re my mum and dad, unless I’m cross with them.’

‘Are you often?’ Harry smiled.

‘No,’ Draco said. ‘Or not enough to do that, anyway. It was joking when I was younger. Or, no, it was petulant when I was younger. I—it would feel a bit cruel now, I think.’

Harry frowned sympathetically. Draco pointed expectantly at the kettle. Harry’s expression cleared as he did a little snort of amusement under his breath.

‘Book club,’ Harry prompted.

‘Yes,’ Draco said. ‘I’ve given her a couple of Muggle books and she has opinions, which she feels the world deserves to hear. At first she wanted to share them with witches, so she could host and such, but her friends are rather depleted. Most are abroad and the ones who stayed are boring, apparently, which they must be as she hasn’t met up with anyone.’ Draco waved another concerned expression from Harry’s face. ‘She Floos the abroad ones all the time, she’s not entirely isolated. Anyway, then she thought I might introduce her to some Muggles, but she is honestly more snobbish about them living in a village than she is about them not having magic and I don’t have any acquaintances who are duchesses or whatever. So Dad says they should do the bookclub just the two of them, for _some_ reason. He likes autobiographies and she’s got him reading _Emma_ by Jane Austen. I’m being roped into it so that they don’t duel over differing opinions of Mr Knightley.’

‘Good book?’ Harry asked, putting a tea in front of Draco.

‘Excellent, and no one should have differing opinions on Mr Knightley, but I am not looking forward to the discussion. It’ll probably be good when we’re actually in it, they’re just utterly insane and I can’t _not_ complain about it.’

‘The universe would implode,’ Harry said, with an air of great wisdom.

Draco smiled. Harry smiled back and Draco felt another small portion of his common sense give up its home and wander off without him. There was no questioning his feelings with him face-to-face with the object of them. He was fucked, really. 

He might have been fucked, but he was also a Malfoy and he was more than capable of presenting a confident, lazy front regardless of his interior feelings. After another hour or so of talk, Harry checked his watch and said that he should probably get going. Draco, in an act of true self-torture, made the first move to hug him goodbye.

After he’d left, Draco reflected that there wasn’t a single other person in the world that he could talk so easily about anything that occurred to him.


End file.
